


A Source of Magic

by Jaybeefoxy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Alternate Universe - Sentinels & Guides, Dancers of Arun Crossover, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magical Mystrade AU, Magical Realism, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Past Lives, Past Relationship(s), magical au, mystrade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-14 06:34:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 60,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28541133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaybeefoxy/pseuds/Jaybeefoxy
Summary: The relationship between Mage and Commoner (those without magical talent) has always been precarious. Greg Lestrade was born thinking he would become a mage only to have those hopes dashed early on. However he does possess unusual skills, but in a world where magic brings the most rewards, Greg has to find his own way through hard graft, blood, sweat, tears, and occasionally theft. Years later, now an Inspector in London's Met Police, he meets Mage Sentinel Mycroft Holmes, again. This time around, Greg has forgotten his past lives, their former bond, and everything Mycroft meant to him. He is about to find out all is not as it seems, and he is set to become something he never dreamed was possible. This is the tale of Gregory Lestrade's journey to becoming the most powerful Source in history.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 56
Kudos: 69





	1. Origins

**Author's Note:**

> This tale is formed in the sandboxes of a miriad of writers, from Guy Gavriel Kay, and Elizabeth A Lynn, to JK Rowling, stopping off in the Sentinel/Guide universe on the way, because I like the title of Sentinel, it's cool. I've drawn on folk tales, mythical beasts, and placed it all in the modern world. In this universe magic is fading, and climate change is having a very real effect. The mental Disciplines of Inspeech, Far Travelling and Patterning are from The Dancers of Arun by Elizabeth K Lynn. It's a great fantasy. You may find other characters pop up at will from other places, always my homage to other universes and writers. Thanks for reading. As ever, comments and kudos are welcome. Hope you enjoy.

Gregory Jonathan Lestrade was an ordinary boy born in an ordinary village near a very ordinary town on the south west coast of England. He emerged into the world in the summer of ‘63, the only son of ordinary parents, with ordinary jobs. In fact nothing in his life was ever _extraordinary_. His father worked in the nearby town, the manager of the supermarket (at the time the only supermarket), while his mum was a district nurse. They owned a car, but Dad used that and mum went everywhere on her bicycle. The town where they worked clung to the coast, and was used to its share of visitors on its beaches in summer, but even so it managed to behave as though it had been quietly forgotten about. It was slightly shabby around the edges, and populated by a motley collection of hippies, mods, rockers, and a selection of older folk who had lived through World War II and now just wanted a quiet retirement. 

Like a lot of children his age, Greg was not much aware of magic, and as he lived in a Commoner household (as those without magical ability were referred to) he was relatively unaware of its importance until he went to school. It wasn’t that his parents didn’t talk about it. Magic was an intrinsic part of life, after all, whether you had The Talent or not. It was simply that he had no direct experience of anybody who used it. Mages were not common, and most would not choose to live in a quiet place like Brent Knoll. It was more suited to Hedge Witches and Cunning Men, the ones who had a modicum of raw wild magic which wasn’t very strong. The small village school where Greg began his learning had no Talented pupils, and no staff with magical abilities. It was all very, very ordinary. 

Of course, secondary school brought an enlightenment as to the magical world and its impact on everyone. All children learned their country’s history, the part magic had played in the forming of the British Empire, the evolving of magical beings and the first recorded humans to have Talent, only around three to four thousand years ago. Nobody knew why it had appeared in people. Even the scientists, for all that non-magical science had advanced in the past century, were still not sure what event had triggered The Enlightening, as the Mages referred to it. 

As children, Greg and his friends didn’t care much about the why of it. History, for them, had happened to other people. Like the stories his grandparents told him about living through the war, such events were interesting but that’s all they were, stories. All kids pretended to be Mages or Witches in the playground of course, casting spells with pretend wands—sticks picked up from the ground—and pretending to mix powerful potions of flying with bird feathers and flower petals and water from the stream. Nobody bothered much with the politics. 

Of course they all dreamed of becoming a Mage. There was power and status to be had as a magical practitioner. There was fame, and wealth. Privilege. None of them knew if they would prove to have Talent though. They were all far too young for anything but dreams. Magical Talent, if there was any, arrived with Puberty, and Puberty itself was a mysterious rite of passage, a thing that happened to everyone and brought changes, but they were all far too young to really understand. Finding out you had magical Talent was like winning the lottery; it always seemed to happen to someone else, and even then very rarely. 

“Gregsy!” Greg looked up at the shout. His mate, Phil, was running toward him through the school gates. It was hometime and Greg was eager to get away. 

“Hi, Phil. What’s up?” He was acutely aware that his voice was breaking, his body changing in subtle ways. He had just passed his thirteenth birthday and Summer was fast approaching. 

“Next week…” the lad panted, jogging to catch up and falling into step with his friend as they set off down the road. 

“What about next week?” Greg flipped a ripe conker into the air. He watched the glossy chestnut surface catch the sun as it flew high. He tracked it as it fell. He knew where it had fallen, even though he couldn’t see it. 

“We’re going to be Tested,” Phil announced. 

“Tested? What for?” Greg asked.

“Talent,” Phil said, awed. “You know, Magic”.

“What, really?”

“Yes, really. Tank told Jen he’d overheard Mr Fanshaw talking to the School Secretary just before hometime, and Jen told Ginger, and Ginger told me.” 

“Yeah, right,” Greg said, sceptically. “So who’s coming to do it? When are they coming?”

“Dunno know yet. It’ll be the Cunning Man who comes round every few years I should think. Milly was telling me about him. They call him Melchior Fletcherson. He’s a bit odd…”

“My Gran keeps telling me most of them are a bit odd.”

“Yeah, well,” Phil said, serious as only a 13 year old can be. “It’s the Magic what does it.”

Greg really hoped he had Talent. Since his awareness of magic had developed, Greg had come to realise how much it would help him and his family. Like a lot of families with no magic, his family was not exactly poor, they managed, but life wasn’t easy. There were no luxuries, no expensive holidays, and they made do with repairing anything broken rather than buy new all the time. His mother could sew and cook and his father was very good at DIY and electrical repairs around the house, but there was little left for new stuff. Magic brought many benefits. His mother was fond of pointing out that there was never a magical household that suffered poverty. Mages still got the best jobs, and the most money. Cunning Folk were less well off but they didn’t seem to suffer either. The Ancient Society of Cunning Folk looked after its own there. More than anything, Greg wanted comfort and security for his loved ones. They were a close knit little family, and Greg wanted nothing more than to be able to offer them safety and a few luxuries in their lives. 

All his family felt sure he would test positive for Talent. Magical ability never really showed before puberty. Something about the power did not blend with the inexperience of childhood. You had to be aware enough to control it, to learn to use it. Greg was just turned 13, but over the last couple of years he had noticed differences in himself, and not just physical ones. He could converse, after a fashion, with animals and birds. At least, he couldn’t talk to them and they couldn’t talk back, but he seemed to understand exactly what they wanted. They in turn were not afraid of him. It was the same with the animals on his uncle’s farm. Greg was sure it wasn’t magic. He didn’t command them. They just came to visit him, they were comfortable enough around him. He had never met an animal or bird that was scared of him. He wanted a dog, but his family had never been able to spare anything for another mouth to feed. They hadn’t even dared to have more than one child. 

Greg also seemed to have a weird sixth sense when it came to what people would do, how and when they would move. Not that he got into many fights, but the few he had experienced, he seemed to know exactly when and where the person would land a blow or a kick. It made him a reputation for being someone to avoid. Not that Greg minded. He was a protector, not a bully, and he would not tolerate bullying in others. Neither would he tolerate anybody trying to bully him. 

Another thing he noticed was the dreams. He dreamt of some interesting things, almost like memories of another life. It was like he was watching a film with himself in the leading role. In one he was in India, on the back of an elephant, and in another he was at sea, on a pirate ship. Always he was an adult, with nobody he recognised, except one recurring face. A tall man with red hair, and blue eyes, and...Greg was convinced he was a Mage. In the dreams, the man could cast spells, but Greg never did. It was a source of great frustration to him. He knew they were friends, very close friends, embarrassingly close, to his youthful mind. 

On the odd occasion, Greg had thought he had heard someone’s thoughts, like right before they were going to say something, he knew what it was they were thinking, how they were feeling. He knew when one of his friends was sad about something, he knew how his mum felt about his dad’s boss and those thoughts were not polite. She was always warning him about bad words but her thoughts were...well, if Greg had ever said anything like she thought, she’d have made him wash his mouth out. With soap probably. He kept silent on that one. 

He never confided any of his experiences with anyone. Sometimes they were just too strange, sometimes he just took them for granted, and other times, well, he was just glad to have them. None of them were in the least bit useful, really, except perhaps knowing where someone would move. It stopped him banging into people and allowed him to avoid fights because nobody could land a blow. He did not think this was magic, because he couldn’t control it all. He couldn’t summon birds or animals, he couldn’t direct his dreams, he couldn’t stop a fight. All those things let him do was pass through life a little more easily, but not by much. It was mightily confusing. 

He read all he could about magic in the school library. He nicked magazines that had articles on it. He read accounts of people’s first experiences, and none of it matched what he was experiencing. There were accounts of people managing to summon animals, of their ability to manipulate weather and making it rain, even of someone who had lifted a car off someone who had been run over, without touching the car. It was power, pure and simple. Nothing Greg had experienced even got close. None of the accounts were of dreams, nobody had any experience of being sensitive to others’ feelings. The only person he confided in was Phil, who simply thought it was cool. 

**0000000**

The night before the Cunning Man was due to visit the school, Greg was quietly excited. Nobody at home said anything. Everybody now knew the man was coming. Parents had all received a letter, almost at the last minute. Greg ate his dinner at the same time as he did most weeknights, he did his homework, watched some television, then he kissed his parents goodnight at 10pm and went to bed. It took him a while to fall asleep but he did eventually, and almost at once it felt as though he was falling into one of _those_ dreams....

**0000000**

_A dark night, a full moon, and a fallen warrior is breathing his last as the rain begins to fall. The clouds slide across the moon, blotting it out for a moment. The night sky fills his vision, full of starshine and crystal droplets of life-giving water, like tears, he thinks. There are worse places to die, and worse ways, although he's having difficulty thinking of any at that precise moment in time. His last moments in time, at least for this life..._

_He’s done this before, many, many times. Seems to be his lot in life, falling for a cause. Wondering how many lives are yet to come is a pointless exercise. Sometimes, though, he gets so very tired. Just once, he thinks, just once it would be nice to be able to stay, to have that one person for the whole of your life, together, without the need for duty and honour and sacrifice. Just once, to grow old gracefully, in peace, with his love by his side._

_Suddenly this vision is blotted out by a huge shadow, and the backdraft of large wings hits him as a large Griffon lands not far away. Someone is dismounting, he hears his name called, even though it isn’t his name. It sounds odd to his ears. He hears feet running toward him, and then a dear familiar face swims into focus above him. Grey-blue eyes regard him with concern, and love, as hands roam, checking, sensing, coming to the same tragic conclusion that he already knows. Just beyond, the feathered face of his favourite mount, Greycrest, looms worriedly in the background. The Griffon trills anxiously for his master and friend. Gregori chokes out an apology, but is swiftly silenced._

_"They're safe. We are safe. You have nought to be sorry for…"_

_"But I'm leaving you...again. You’ll not have a Source..."_

_"Temporarily. We've done this a thousand times. We always meet again."_

_He reply is angry. "When will it be done?" which only results in pained coughing. The gut wound is severe, he’s already gone beyond the threshold for survival. Not even magic can save him now. His blood will nourish the ground he lies on though, a willing sacrifice, if not exactly a happy one. "It's too late to…" He meets familiar stormy blue eyes with his own peat-brown gaze, sees the love reflected, alongside the regret._

_"I'm sorry." He knows the man is sorry, he trusts this man to save him, were it possible. He's done so before, many times. Narrow fingers detach from around the staff the man carries and find his in the dark. Seconds later, his fingers are wrapped around a blade hilt. He sighs with a relief he hadn't realised he'd been waiting for. There's a smile in the voice._

_"You'll need this, where you're going."_

_"Thank you. Marc...stay safe.... Look after him,” he orders, hears a trill of agreement from the Griffon. He’ll miss them both. Another painful cough, and then the pain ebbs at a soft touch from the man beside him. “I'll meet you...at the gate. Promise..." he speaks a name that sounds foreign and yet familiar, it sounds like mah-craft, which is nothing like any name Greg knows, although he understands it means ‘more strength’ or ‘much power’._

_"Always." The tall man with the auburn hair, the owner of the name, is weeping, tears tracking across the pale cheeks, but his voice is steady. "You know I'll miss you, Gregori."_

_“Find yourself...another...Source. Don’t be alone...love you, for evermore….”_

_He's suddenly so tired. His fingers grow lax. Firm ones curl to keep his own in place. He feels a pressure of a mouth on his, soft lips caressing gently, a promise, and then…_

_Nothing..._

_The tall, overly-thin man with rain-darkened auburn hair got to his feet stiffly, reached to bury his fingers in the soft feathers of the griffon’s neck. The big creature crooned comfortingly. The man called for his people to lift the lax body of the man who died for them, and they placed him on the Griffon’s back. The beast did this one last act for his friend, bearing him home one last time, without complaint. Maecraeft followed, one hand on the beast’s flank, the other grasping his staff, and they both walked slowly, regretfully, back up the hill to the castle that stood on the promontory. This time, it would be a little longer before he could rest his own head in death, and he always regretted the time before they found each other again. If he was to accomplish what he set out to do, another Source would be paramount, but...he really didn’t want anyone else. Anyone else would not be...him. At least, this time he had been given permission, but it would not be the same._

**0000000**

Greg woke in a sweat, wondering what on earth that had been about. Far more detailed than any of the other dreams he’d had, he was left feeling bereft, and something like grief tugged at him. The emotions were not quite like anything he’d felt before. It was like losing his grandad the year before only worse. Some of the feelings from the dream he didn’t yet understand. He had the weirdest feeling that he and the other man in the dream had been...well... _together_ , like his uncle Dave and Dave’s friend, Martin. And boy, if that didn’t make him blush red to the roots of his hair just thinking about it. A lot of the dream he had already forgotten as sleep gave way to consciousness, but not _that_. Greg vowed that nobody would be finding out about this any time soon. 

He got up and went for a shower, hoping to wash the feelings away, but it didn’t work. Nobody said anything at breakfast, and Greg did not dare share the particulars of his dream. His mother served up cereal and tea and, unusually for that morning, a bacon sandwich. His father buried himself in his morning paper, and then took him to school in the car, saying nothing beyond the usual; have a good day, work hard, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. It was like they knew, but did not want to tempt providence, as his father was always fond of saying. Greg watched the car bounce down the road. Then he turned resolutely and walked into the school. 


	2. Thirty Years Later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Present day, and Greg is slogging through life as a Detective Inspector, as well as being liaison to the Mage's Temple.

Greg checked his watch, cursing his lateness. He should have been back at New Scotland Yard a half hour ago. He was tired, cranky, and hot. Chasing a suspect down in the heat of the hottest May on record was not how this afternoon was supposed to go. The constable he had been with had failed to spot the suspect fleeing out of a back door of the pub they had been called to until the gap between them was wide enough that Greg had little chance of closing it, ultimately losing his quarry in a scrap yard a half mile away. As a result he was royally pissed off. 

A shadow passed across him as he waited to cross the road and he looked up to see a rather large griffon arriving on the rooftop landing pad. He didn’t need to see the rider to know who it was. He simply knew. Dashing through the doors, and to the lift, he willed it to travel faster up to his own floor in anticipation of the impending arrival of the Head of the Mages’ Temple. He barely had time to straighten his tie and tidy his hair before there was a perfunctory knock on his office door and the man swept in, his usual sour expression on his face.

“I have warned you about this before…” The voice was deadpan, monotone, and ultimately creepy. _His face is like a skull_ , Greg thought to himself, _sallow skin, sunken cheeked, the man’s a lizard, or a snake, cold blooded and unnerving._ He wondered not for the first time if there was any Wer blood in Magnusson’s background. He was too like a Werserpent for comfort. Greg had met a few of those in his time in the Met, and they were not usually a pleasant people to be around. Suicide to even think about it, if he wasn’t careful. Magnusson was powerful, and held the highest position a mage could acquire; Mage Sentinel Prime of the United Kingdom. The man’s shadow, his Source, sat respectfully in a chair just outside Greg’s office door. He was an unassuming sycophantic little man, a bit creepy, but rumour had it he was an _Inspeaker,_ able to divine what a man was thinking, not to mention whether he was lying or not. Between the two of them, they did a fine job of creeping Greg out every time he came into contact with them. Not that they had ever tried anything on him, which Greg was mildly surprised about. Magnusson talked a lot, but never seemed to do anything, and they had met enough times outside of the Null Field Generator to have had ample opportunity. 

Not for nothing had a lot of people drawn a likeness between Rowling’s Voldemort and Mage-Sentinel Prime Magnusson when he came to power a scant few years ago. However, they only did so in hushed whispers. In the current climate, it didn't do to be too vocally derogatory where The Temple of Mages was concerned. Greg had his suspicions concerning a few recent ‘disappearances’, but there was insufficient evidence to go about accusing people willy nilly, particularly highly placed mages. It was shocking enough to him that he felt like that in the first place. It was a measure of how things had changed in the last few years. 

Greg remembered vividly his burning desire to become a mage when he was a kid; to garner kudos and wealth for his family, to become something respected and even feared. Now though... _wouldn’t thank you for it,_ he thought sourly. It really wasn’t a surprise that the Mages were not popular these days. The last two years had done a lot of damage to the entente between the magical and non-magical communities, coming on top of all the changes made in the first two decades of the new century. Mages and Commoners had a precarious history littered with oppression and violence. As any school child learned, magic was in itself not evil, but it was relatively powerful. Mage Privilege, they called it. Most commoner folk knew what it felt like to be discriminated against, to be passed over, to be pushed into the jobs nobody else wanted. Even non-magical families that had a mage related to them enjoyed more opportunities. 

As Magnusson droned on, voicing his displeasure, disappointment, and general dislike of those at New Scotland Yard, Greg let his thoughts drift. He had heard Magnusson’s complaints many times over the last two years. The man seemed to make a habit of turning up at least once a week to reiterate his disappointment with the commoner peacekeepers, stopping short of openly threatening anyone, but hinting rather heavily at his power and backing and influence. 

Five years ago, Greg Lestrade had, for some reason, been appointed NSY’s liaison with the Crown Office that dealt with magical law enforcement. His superiors had cited his diplomacy, his excellent people skills, his friendly open demeanor and his complete lack of magical capability (which always stung) as being exactly what the force needed to enable them to maintain a smooth relationship between The Temple and the Police… Detective Inspector Gregory Jonathan Lestrade was unbiased and had an exemplary record. _If only they knew_ , Greg thought. 

Greg dragged himself back to the present, focussing on Magnusson again with difficulty. “Warned, how, exactly?” he demanded, glaring at the man. Technically, the Mage Sentinel Prime had no jurisdiction in New Scotland Yard, despite his rank and status. While Greg was supposed to treat him with circumspection and respect, there was nothing to say he had to take the man’s insults. 

“I have warned this office repeatedly about the delays in reporting magical crimes, yet you consistently deny us access to what is obviously our jurisdiction. Crimes against mages are escalating, and it is not good enough.” He stepped right into Greg’s personal space, breath ghosting over the Inspector’s cheek as he spoke, for Lestrade’s ears alone. “And Inspector, I have been busy. Oh yes, I have found out something that your superiors would wet themselves to know… What I might reveal, should you and I not come to some arrangement…”

Greg regarded him coldly, but a cold shiver travelled down his spine. “I don’t know what you think you know...but let me remind you, _Magus_ , that you are here as a _courtesy_ ,” he hissed, patience growing thin. The man was loathsome. “Current legislation states….”

“Current legislation be damned!” Magnusson growled. “You’ve been a naughty boy, Detective Inspector, a naughty boy indeed.” Magnusson’s eyes glinted, and he smiled pleasantly. On him, it just looked creepy.

“NSY agrees to hand over any and all serious crimes that bear the hallmarks of magical work within _forty eight hours_ of discovery.” Greg parotted the agreement back at the Mage. _What more can I do,_ he thought, wondering exactly what the man thought he’d learned. “Of _discovery,_ Magus. We do not necessarily realise or understand if a crime is magical until we have consulted with our experts. At no time have we been lax in this agreement, but you seem to be overlooking the main point. Forty eight hours, Magus, not five or fifteen or twenty four. Forty. Eight. Hours. No more, no less…” 

“Don’t play me for a fool, Inspector.” The icy glare was disconcerting. “I promise you will regret this…” 

“I have no idea what you mean, Magus. I fail to see what exactly we can do differently,” Greg insisted. “Your people have been informed and on site within hours of every magical crime that has been committed since the agreement was ratified, we have _exceeded_ our requirement to you, and your people have never failed to take over a relevant case. You cannot go about accusing the police of undermining your office every case we get that has magic attached. We don’t get forewarning that a case is magical…” 

“I can see you need incentive, Inspector.” The man glared at him, assessing. “I think your superiors would love to know that you lied…”

“I have never lied to them.”

“Then you have lied by omission then. Not told them something that would most likely have prevented you taking up an appointment with the police in the first place. Come now, Inspector, your deception can be wiped clean, erased as if it had never been…” 

Greg had been certain that his past was exactly that, his past. There was no evidence, as far as he knew. He wasn’t proud of it. Desperation had led to desperate action and he knew if it ever came to light, his career would probably be over. He privately knew why he had been given the position of Liaison. It was because nobody else had wanted to do it, and they couldn’t give it to anyone under the rank of DI. Even so low a rank was a bit of an insult and although his predecessor had been fine with it, Magnusson had taken it badly that he had to deal with someone relatively low in the pecking order. Over the last two years the man had done nothing but whinge, in a sinister, threatening way. Sinister and threatening aside, whinging was whinging in Greg’s book, no matter how it was done. Somehow, in his busy schedule, the Magus Sentinel Prime found time to visit his office and whinge. Now it looked like he had gone to the bother of finding Greg’s pressure point, or at least he seemed to have unearthed it. He hadn’t actually told him what he thought he knew though. _Did it matter?_ Greg wondered if the man would go so far to fabricate evidence. Either way, it stressed him to think the odious man really had found something, or fabricated something that would stick, no matter how unlikely it was that the Magus Prime knew about his real past. 

The previous Magus Prime, Tobias Oldacre, had been quite pleasant; stuffy with a side order of eccentric, plus delusions of grandeur, but still polite with it. The man had been over 125 years old, mages living on average a quarter of a century longer than Commoners. Old enough to remember a time when Mages had been a bit more popular, Oldacre had been a young mage at the time of the Second World War, when British Mages worked tirelessly to defeat one of the worst of all time, Herman Goering, Adolf Hitler’s pet Mage and the Nazi Party’s Magus Prime. Oldacre had lived to see a more peaceful and cooperative end to the century, with improvements in equality and diversity, changes in policy and law, which lead to a happier time for all concerned. His had been one of the more vocal activist voices for human rights. At least, it had been a happier time until Magnusson had turned up.

Magnussen was the polar opposite to Oldacre. Old Blood, he was the latest of a family line that went back hundreds of years. It wasn't common. Magic was not hereditary, no matter what anyone would have you believe, and rumour had it the man had got rid of his first wife because she'd borne him two sons, neither of whom was even remotely magical, never mind being from a fourth generation father. His new wife, barely in her 20s, was already pregnant and they'd not yet been married three months yet. Greg detested the man. He was oily, powerful, and rude. He might also harbour suspicions that Magnusson had gotten rid of Oldacre, but even though that was unfounded, it was believable, even if it was tantamount to treason to accuse him of it. 

“Magus,” Greg had said, aiming for one last try at diplomacy. “I will do my best to make sure the investigating officers contact your department as fast as possible, but as I’m sure you can appreciate, there are lots of factors that get in the way of that. However, if you could exercise patience, I'll make sure everyone is aware of your request and I will personally make sure the message gets to the relevant people that speed is of the essence...”

“Not good enough, Inspector,” Magnusson growled. “Do you know how many perpetrators of crimes against mages we have caught in the last twelve months? Precisely none. The delay in cases being handed over is not acceptable. We lose valuable time to identify and apprehend the killers.” _If you left it in our hands, you might have more luck,_ Greg could not stop himself thinking. “The time has passed for platitudes. Do it, or I shall make sure the relevant authorities see the evidence I have that you are not the golden boy that they seem to think you are…” The man turned for the door, snapped his fingers at his Source, and Greg watched the two of them leave, Magnusson with a swirl of his dark robes, his Source hurrying to catch up. _He has all the grace and favour of Nosferatu with toothache,_ Greg considered. He closed his eyes and sighed. Trouble with a capital T was on the way. It worried him what Magnusson might have found. His closet was not without a skeleton or two. 

“Sir?” Sally Donovan interrupted his thoughts when she poked her head around the door, carrying two steaming cups around twenty minutes after his meeting. “He’s gone. Griffon took off five minutes ago. Same complaint as usual?”

“Give you three guesses.” Greg collapsed into his seat with a groan. “He only bothers me to bend my ear about how we’re doing a shit job. We’re not transferring magical cases to The Temple fast enough, apparently.” He always remained standing when Magnusson came visiting. At least he always knew when the man was about to call. Greg knew it irked the prick, as he hadn’t yet been able to arrive completely unannounced and catch Greg on the hop. Magnusson had no idea how Greg managed to find out that he was about to arrive. _Perhaps that’s what goaded him to find something on me..._

“He’s a creep.” Sally stepped forward to place a cup on his coaster on the desktop. “Yeah, but he’s the Head Creep,” Greg said, “and as such, we try not to antagonise him. Might be a pain to work with, but…” 

“But nothing,” Sal retorted. “The deadline is still forty eight hours to hand over, isn’t it? So what’s he got to complain about?”

“Everything, anything he can think of...You know what he’s like. He wants us to report as soon as we know it’s a magical crime, and...” Greg tried to stop his voice trembling. “If he doesn’t, my job’s on the line.”

“Boss, he’s always suggesting he can wipe you from the face of the earth if you so much as blink in his presence without permission. He’s not a nice man, but he can’t get away with doing anything to us, we’re police. Not even Magnusson would be _that_ stupid.” _Much you know,_ Greg thought, drinking his coffee and trying to forget the exchange. “Anyway,” Sally added brightly, “thank God for NFGs…” 

Null Field Generators cancelled out magical effects very simply and very, very effectively. Developed around 1910 by two young commoner scientists, the devices had obviously been improved since those first wildly unreliable attempts but the effect largely remained the same. The energy field they created cancelled magical energy as effectively as an EM pulse knocked out computers. Hailed as the single most important breakthrough for the protection of the rights of commoners against magic, NFGs were first used in the First World War, protecting British guns from deactivation by the enemy and rendering the enemy mages completely helpless. Despite draining the power grid of its reserves very quickly, their use had quickly led to a truce and a cessation of hostilities within weeks. 

The modern generators worked on a net of nodes placed in and around the walls of the building, creating what amounted to a faraday cage for magic. NSY had one of the largest, only lately having begun to be powered by solar panels on the roof. The only problem with them was they were hellishly expensive to run, which put them out of range of most individuals. Just in case they should be tampered with (after all, some mages could control weather and block the sun from the solar panels), there was a back-up connection to the National Grid. People were working on the technology to improve its efficiency but so far they hadn’t worked out how to make it less expensive. The power required to effectively annul the most powerful magic was still phenomenally off the scale. In courts of law, police stations, prisons, and other places where justice was served or where test outcomes required protection, like schools and colleges, NFGs were now standard, providing somewhere where the results could not be questioned or influenced from outside. As far as Greg knew, their effect on mages was similar to the muffling feeling of an ordinary person stepping into a soundproofed room. 

It was definite that Magnusson thought he was above the law, despite the fact that chaos and anarchy had always ensued when the magical community challenged the commoners. You could only subdue people for so long before they rebelled. The magical wars fought through the centuries should have acted as lessons in what happened when you ignored that fundamental truth, but folk never seemed to learn. Despite that, Magnusson always managed to put the fear of the Devil in anyone stupid enough to cross him. 

“He’s not one of nature’s gentlemen, that’s certain,” Greg agreed. “His predecessor might have been on the stuffy side, but Oldacre wasn’t that bad to work with.” 

Sally scoffed. “If you ask me, they’re all an entitled bunch of pricks with no manners these days. They all think they’re God’s gift, even the women. Magnusson’s just the tip of the iceberg; rude, superior, misogynistic, entitled,” she said. “He’s a cold fish, and there’s loads of rumours floating about, the way he goes around with those hired thugs of his. Last I heard, there’s talk of him being a blackmailer, but nobody’s daft enough to try to bring him to court over it. He’s too powerful. More than my pay grade to bring him in for questioning anyway.”

“Maybe someday he’ll make a mistake.” Greg reached for his coffee and stopped. He sat back again, aware of Sally’s move to sit down and put her cup down. Collision would be inevitable in the small space of his office. Collision, coffee tipping, spilling over his clothes… He waited for her to move first, which she did, neatly avoiding the anticipated collision. He glanced at her and smiled.

“Don’t forget your coffee, sir," she prompted, grinning at him.

**0000000**

"So...we're looking at...what, exactly?" Greg was standing in Regent’s Park, a month after his last fateful meeting with Magnusson. That month had played out much as every month did. There were cases, paperwork, and staffing problems. No more word had come from Magnusson’s department, oddly enough. With rain dripping under his collar, Greg found himself staring at a body covered in blood and esoteric markings that had a faint glow to them. Some constables were hastily erecting a tent over the scene to preserve what little evidence had survived the downpour. Anderson regarded Greg with disdain. "Well, _obviously_ , it’s got magic written all ov..." he began, but Sally kicked him. "Ow, what was that for?"

“Don't be an arse," she said, unforgiving. “We’re neither of us stupid, Phil.”

"If you two have finished giving each other the evil eye," Greg complained, "Has anybody called The Temple? This dead body does have magic written very obviously all over it..."

"Which was obviously a cover-up." They all turned in the direction of the disdainful voice to see Mage Sentinel Sherlock Holmes, black cloak billowing out behind him dramatically, its collar artfully turned up as usual, stalking toward them. He grinned, shark-like and mirthless. “Let’s see what the might of the Yard has for us, eh, John?” 

"Ah, Mr Holmes…"

"Inspector Lestrade. Sergeant Donovan." Holmes pointedly ignored Anderson. "Now, if you've quite finished trampling _my_ crime scene…"

"Sir...We were called to a murder, we had no idea it was magical jurisdiction until we got here…" 

"Yada, yada, heard it all before,” Sherlock replied. “Of course you informed The Temple as soon as you realised…" 

"Sherlock…" The voice was a low warning growl and Greg was never more relieved to hear it right at that moment. His life was enough of a shit pile without a direct confrontation with _another_ of the Sentinels. That would just be more fuel for Magnusson and Greg was well aware of what might happen there. He was also glad that this particular Source had decided to stick around. John Watson was a solid grounding presence, a doctor and former soldier, the only one who had any success at making Mage Sentinel Holmes anything like agreeable to work with. The man was actually nice, for Gods’ sakes. 

Sources were essential for mages who wanted to advance in power these days, but it was a relatively recent discovery. Around about the turn of the previous century, it had been proven that there were certain people in existence who were in tune with magic but had no magic themselves—like Culverton Smith and John Watson—who could link to a mage and provide enhancement to their skills. This source of extra power, hence the epithet, could be accessed by the mage. Despite the rumours that Sources could and did veto their mage’s power, Culverton Smith had never seemed to do so with Magnusson. Mages reached a plateau in their abilities, a level above which they could not reach unless with the additional power a Source could provide. If the pairing couldn't work together, the mage was stymied in doing more powerful work until he, or she, found someone compatible. Since Greg had met Sherlock, the mage had gone through at least five Sources prior to meeting John. Considering there were less than thirty sources registered in the whole country, that was no mean feat. He usually had them in tears before the end of the first week, even the male ones, and so far nobody had lasted very long. The longest had actually lasted three months, Greg reflected. A chance meeting six months ago had brought the two men within each other's sphere. Some would call it fate, but Greg was disinclined to believe in such intangible qualities anymore. His own rise hadn't been blessed with the privilege magical talent could give you. He'd had to work for it, every inch laced with his blood, sweat, and tears, not to mention his resentment. If his bosses had considered him completely unbiased, they hadn’t been quite correct on that score. Magic brought privilege, and the talent wasn't earned, you just had it or you didn't, it did not discriminate.

Greg watched, sidelined, as the pair scanned the scene. Sherlock had modified his griping but he still wasn't satisfied. Greg recognised John’s soothing monotone underscoring the younger man’s baritone. They spent a long time cataloging and discussing. Knowing he was in for a long wait, Greg went to find coffee. 

He returned to find a sleek black car pulled up alongside the park wherein the body lay. One look made him groan. That meant the big guns were here. Any moment Greg expected to be faced with that evil gaze, dark eyes searching him for every little flaw and pressure point… Threatening him with exposure of his sins. For someone purportedly on the side of law enforcement, Magnusson trod a very precarious path. Some of the rumours had it that he was also a Summoner, but that, too, had never been proved. Summoners were rumoured to call _demons_ to aid them, entities of negative energy that were not particularly nice, but were rather effective if you could bind them to your will. Greg had no clue if that was another bit of fake news, a fabrication of one of the more Alt-right anti-mage conspiracy theory nutters. He could believe it of the man though. He was slimy enough. 

As Greg approached with increasing reluctance, it became apparent that the person standing beside the Sentinel and his Source was not the government official he had expected to see. Magnusson was curiously absent. In his place was...someone who tugged at Greg's memory. The man was gorgeous; a lean body clad in a sharp Saville Row suit that would have cost Greg a month's salary, with long legs, auburn— _actual auburn_ —hair, and...the man turned, and Greg's brain stalled. Blue-grey eyes looked back. _A rainy night, stars shining above him… pain… blood… an oath...binding…love..._ Ears ringing, breath short, dizziness overwhelmed him and Greg felt himself falling. His last conscious thought was _how did I not see that coming…?_


	3. From Dashed Hope to Future Possibilities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The seeds are planted for Greg's bitterness and regret, but a chance meeting changes everything.

Greg could hardly sit still in class that morning. Everyone was on edge, even the teachers. Mr Bracegirdle finally shooed them all out the door, claiming that they were too hyper to learn. He organised them to expend their energy in a run around the perimeter of the playing field. He did not want anyone to return who wasn’t out of breath. “That should burn off some nervous energy,” he had said, shutting the door on them all. 

When it came to lunchtime and still nobody had shown up, everyone came to the conclusion that nobody was turning up after all. 

“Cunning Men are notoriously unreliable, my mum says,” Phil announced, plonking himself down beside Milly and Greg at the dinner table. 

“What would your mum know?” Milly said. Everyone knew her great grandma had been a Wise One. She never let anybody forget it. She was actually in the year above Greg and Phil but she hung around with them for some reason and Greg never wondered enough to question it. Milly was pretty, after a fashion. She was also a tomboy, and could climb trees with the best of them. 

“My mum knew a Cunning Woman...” Phil began.

“Shh,” Milly hissed, suddenly, startling them all. “He’s here...” They all looked to the door into the dining hall to see the Headmaster accompanying an odd-looking man, leading him to the upper school corridor. “That’s him. Oh, my God, he’s really here...” She squeaked.

Greg found his mouth was suddenly dry. They finished dinner, cleared their trays away and went outside until the bell for afternoon lessons rang. Nobody spoke. Nobody moved. When the bell sounded, they all lined up, so neatly that the teacher on yard duty had commented on it. They filed back inside, quietly, disappearing to their respective classes for the register and then... _judgement,_ Greg thought.

Their class had returned after lunch to find the man waiting for them. As far as Greg was concerned, the shabbily dressed, tattooed, half-bald person standing there was exactly the type his teachers spent ages warning Greg and his peers not to trust or go off anywhere with. One look at him immediately inspired deep-seated distrust in Greg and he could not shake the feeling. Names were called, and each time, someone would stand, and the man would peer myopically at them. His eyes would narrow, and then he would frown, then there would be a head shake, and Greg’s classmate would sit down, disappointed, or relieved, or both. Strangely, because his name was not last on the register, Greg was nevertheless the final name to be called.

“Lestrade,” his teacher said. Greg swallowed back nerves, and scraped his chair back. He stood, and faced the odd man, standing as tall as his thirteen year old self could manage. Eyes narrowed and the man’s attention zeroed in on him. One eyebrow rose, and the man straightened. 

“I detect no magic in you, boy. None whatever,” he said, staring fiercely at Greg.

Greg blinked. _What?_ Stunned, Greg found he could not simply sit down. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. “B.b.but…” he stuttered. 

“Enough. You are _not_ magical. That’s all.” The man turned abruptly, and left the room, and just like that, all Greg’s hopes had been shattered. 

**0000000**

**Present Day**

Greg woke slowly. He could see blue and red lights strobing through his eyelids. He groaned. 

“Aha, back with us, eh, Buddy?” said an overly cheerful Australian voice. Greg cracked an eye open. He was prone, on a trolley, and a green-clad paramedic was in the middle of loading him into the clinically clean, not to mention painfully bright, interior of an ambulance. _Where the fuck…?_

“Just bear with us, mate, we’ll have you situated in no time flat. Just stay still for me, okay? Might have hit your head on the way down, so…” The bed slid in and clicked into place, wheels locking. “Call-me-Bob. Now, what’ll I call you?” That was the first of a series of questions and an examination of his reflexes, his reactions, his vital signs… It took ages, and Greg was monumentally embarrassed. “Well, I can’t find anything too wrong, mate. If it happens again though, I would go see your own doctor. Probably a bit of hypertension, your blood pressure is a bit elevated but nothing too alarming. Cut down on the coffee and don’t forget to eat, okay?” Call-me-Bob said with a smile. “You coppers are all the bloody same.”

“Yeah, thanks. Sorry for…”

“Oh, no worries, mate. You have a good day now. I’d suggest you go home, rest up, see how you feel in the morning. Call 111 if anything gets worse or strikes you as off. Don’t drive yourself anywhere either, okay?”

“Okay, thanks.” Greg stood slowly, only wobbling a little. Sally helped him down from the ambulance.

“Who was that guy with Holmes?” Greg asked before she could say anything. Behind them, the paramedics closed the doors and killed the lights, prepping to drive off again. Sally guided him away from the vehicle, back toward his own. 

“With the Freak? There’s John, but you know him, don’t you?”

“Not John, the other one. Tall, red hair…Christ, don’t say I imagined him…”

“Oh, him, no… you didn’t.” She fished for his keys in his jacket pocket. “I’ll drive,” she said. 

“Good idea. I’m not supposed to.”

“I know. I heard him tell you.” 

“So who was he?” Greg pressed. “The guy with Holmes. Who was he?”

Sally looked pointedly at him for a moment. “The Freak’s brother…” she said. 

**0000000**

_Sherlock had a brother…?_ That seemed unusual enough, but the man had been in a Temple car, marked with the crest of the Order. _He was official. Had to be. Something quite high up to warrant that too._ Greg pondered it all evening, until he was sure he was going nuts. What on earth had prompted him to faint like a teen he had no idea. He didn’t faint. He was in robust health. He hardly ever got sick. He actually had little recollection of what had happened. He got a fitful night’s sleep and went to work the next day in a grumpy haze, expecting any moment to feel Magnusson’s arrival. There was the usual catch-up mound of paperwork on his desk; Sally had left him forms T221a and T221b, the two part form for the transfer of cases with magical content to The Temple jurisdiction. He knew he’d best fax those over asap. Sal made him his usual coffee but he left it untouched, mindful of the injunction to cut down on caffeine. The transfer sheets could wait. They got down to the day’s business of putting together the latest case against a shopkeeper who had murdered his wife for the insurance money. At least the body in the park wasn’t on their books anymore. 

Mid-morning came and went, Sal sent the detective constables on house-to-house information gathering, and Greg signed off on everybody's overtime. Then he phoned forensics to chase some results. Nothing new appeared. He emerged from his office at 11.30 to talk to Sally and Dave about the relationship between two of their suspects and when he got back to his office, a takeaway bag was sitting on his—now neatly cleared—desk, with a take away cup of tea beside it, steaming gently. 

"Sally!" Greg shouted. She appeared around his door, spotted the food and smiled.

"When did you have time to order that in?"

"I didn't…"

"Oh. Okay.”

“Any message with it?" she asked. Greg looked, and yes, there was a neat handwritten note, in flowing cursive. 

_Dear Detective Inspector Lestrade,_

_I sincerely hope that you are well, but as usual, I predict that you are probably run off your feet. Please accept this small token of my appreciation for your continued support of my brother, Sherlock, and his Source, John. I shall be in touch soon, in your official capacity as Liaison to the Crown Office for Magical Law Enforcement. Enjoy the rest of your day._

_Sincerely_

_Mycroft Holmes_

_Mage Sentinel Prime for the Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland._

Greg stared. _Mage Sentinel Prime? For the Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland?_

"What happened to Magnusson?" Greg asked as Sally read the message. She shook her head, puzzled.

"Obviously something that didn't make the papers," she replied. "Enjoy your lunch, sir…"

**0000000**

Greg at least had time to make sure he was standing, casually looking out of his office window across the rooftops of London, when Mycroft Holmes, the new Mage Sentinel Prime, came to call on him later that same afternoon. He turned, smile in place, as Holmes entered, watched as the man's gaze sharpened, taking in the scene in one glance. Holmes froze. Greg again experienced a curious vertiginous dizziness as their eyes met. Mycroft looked... _wary_ , but maintained an aura of outward calm. He took a breath, and smiled, warmly. He was, Greg thought, quite unlike his brother. It wasn’t that the man was gorgeous. Sherlock was devastatingly good looking in his own way; unruly Byronesque dark curls, fair skin, aquamarine eyes above high cheekbones. If anybody could be said to _look_ like a mage, Sherlock’s fae appearance fitted the bill. His older brother, though, was more patrician, elegant in a way Sherlock would never be. He was immaculate in appearance, his suit obviously bespoke, fitted in a way that made it look artless and emphasised the absolute best points of his physique. The aquiline profile and those cobalt blue eyes complemented by that smouldering auburn hair, like the embers of a dying fire… Greg caught himself. _Christ, now is not the time to go all poetically romantic._... He dragged himself back to reality.

"Do I know you?" He blurted out. "I mean...have we met before? It's just….you look very bloody familiar...I just can't place…"

Mycroft was looking at him oddly, a slight frown drawing those elegant eyebrows together. “You know who I am?”

“Yeah, I mean, you’re Sherlock...Mage Sentinel Holmes’ brother. Aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am. My name is…”

“Mycroft… Mycroft Holmes.”

Mycroft nodded. “That is correct.” He paused, curious. “You were told you had no magic," he said, bluntly. “Who told you?”

Greg cursed himself as he winced, it was almost an autonomic response by now. "Yes," he said, pained.

"It still hurts.” It wasn’t a question. 

“Yes, _of course it does_ ,” Greg said, hearing his own voice go husky with emotion. “It was my dream…” 

“Well, whoever they were, they were either lying, or they didn’t understand," Mycroft said, dropping the bombshell as if discussing the weather. "More interestingly, if it was a lie, I wonder why they would do such a thing." 


	4. Possible Source

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg is faced with the truth.

“Where was your school? I admit I detect a little West Country in your accent at times.” Mycroft was obviously curious, even if he didn’t realise fully what his words had evoked in Greg. 

“Yeah, right,” Greg responded, reluctantly. “I was born in a village called Brent Knoll, went to the Primary School there and then to the comprehensive school at Burnham on Sea.”

“Is that where you were tested?”

Greg nodded. “Yes, it was. Our Headmaster always had this particular man around every couple of years because he was good at sensing Talent, and he tested all us older ones. Took one look at me, though, and said I wasn’t magical, just like that. Nothing else. Couldn’t wait to leave and test the year above me.”

“You mean he was...what, offhand?” Mycroft watched Greg’s reactions carefully.

“Very. I was thirteen, Mycroft…” Greg belatedly realised he had used the man’s first name without being invited. “Sorry…” he mumbled. “Mr Holmes.”

“Not a problem, Gregory. Please, do not fret yourself. Call me by my first name.”

“I...how do you know all this? I’m not magic, I have no talent. How do you know he was lying?”

“Know? I make it my business to know. I can sense _something_ in you, Greg. I feel that you would make a very powerful Source, but your power is somewhat buried, largely untapped, and completely untrained. Therefore I cannot measure it. Someone must have told you that you had no magical Talent for you not to be a Source by now. You believed them, that much is certain. It’s unheard of. Perhaps they did not fully understand it, but to dismiss it out of hand...” 

“A Source...but...that’s…”

“Within your capabilities, despite you being convinced for most of your life that you were incapable of any magical feeling…”

“Oh. Does that…explain…?”

“Explain what?”

“I...um...I can sense...things.”

“What kind of things?”

“Anticipate happenings, like you turning up here, like...where the next hit will come from in a fight, like which horse will win a race, but I can’t read it very far ahead. Like I can’t win at gambling, because I don’t know which horse will win until the race is half over. Like I can tell where the next blow will come from, but only during the fight. I could tell you were coming here, but like only a few minutes before you arrived.”

“You’re a Patterner? So your skills are not completely buried then?”

“A what?”

“A Patterner, someone who is tuned to the energies of the world in such a way as to see the pattern of the Tapestry. Anticipation of how all the threads come together to create the next move, like a chess game. It isn’t magic in the strictest sense, just an empathy with the world around you, if that makes sense. Do you dance?”

“Dance?”

“Yes, dance. Patterners often make excellent dancers. It is a valuable skill.” Greg thought back to his youthful moves on a disco floor. He hadn’t been too terrible, actually. 

“I can...do other stuff too.”

“What is it that you think you can do? Normally Sources have only one skill they are good at...Having more is not...well, not really heard of. I only know one other Source who has more than one skill, and that man is John Watson. He is an Inspeaker and a Pattener.” 

“Culverton Smith is one of those, isn’t he?”

“An inspeaker? Yes, he is. Can you sense surface thoughts and emotions?”

Greg nodded. “I always know how people feel.”

“You should be able to show a person what another is feeling too. Inspeakers can also detect untruths.”

“I can do that. Helps when you’re a policeman.”

“You...really?”

“Yes. Um...I can tell how someone is feeling, if they’re afraid or lying. I can hear the odd word too, like a single thought.” Mycroft was looking incredulous.

“What am I thinking now?”

“That I’m impossible.” He watched Mycroft’s eyebrows rise. “There’s more though.”

“Good grief. What else can you do?”

“You’ll laugh.”

“Please, tell me? I do promise not to laugh. This is too serious to laugh at.”

Greg took a breath. “I can...sort of...communicate with animals and birds…”

“How?” Mycroft maintained a deadly serious face, which was why Greg continued to explain.

“There used to be this old pigeon came to my windowsill,” Greg explained his youthful days to Mycroft, and the pigeon that came to call, and the fox he had saved. “I’ve got a good relationship with police dogs too. It’s like they know what I’m saying...Bloody silly. I’m not some kind of Dr Doolittle…”

“A Patterner, an Inspeaker, _and_ a Wildspeaker? How very interesting.” Mycroft’s expression had, if anything, intensified. “This is...frankly unprecedented.”

“What the F…”

“Gregory, I am sorry if this is a lot to take in. You are not a mage, per se. You can, however, do as a Source does, and tap into the earth’s energies. You must have incredible empathy to have three skills, to be a patterner, and an Inspeaker, _and_ a wildspeaker. Had you been told the truth, had you not believed that man so thoroughly, you could have been an amazingly powerful Source by now.” 

“Bollocks,” Greg said inelegantly.

“I assure you it is not _bollocks,”_ Mycroft insisted. 

“Do Sources dream?”

“Dream? What is it that you dream?”

“Places I’ve never been.” The look of shock on Mycroft’s face would have been comical if it hadn’t been such a serious matter. 

“But that...that is Far-Travelling, seeing places you have never been to.”

“Bugger me, are there any more skills to this thing?”

“The only other one is very rare. I highly doubt…”

“What is it?”

“It is called...Unravelling. Quite literally you can unravel spells thrown at you. Nobody can touch you with their magic…”

“Unravelling?” Greg’s expression had changed, wariness replaced the surprise. 

“You are immune to the effects of magical working. Nothing can work on an Unraveller. You literally unravel the power of the spell.”

“Okay. Not sure if I can do that, but....”

“But?”

“Would I know if anyone had tried?”

“I am unsure. As I said, Unravelling is a very rare skill.” Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “I know no one with it.”

“Magnusson always tried to threaten me, and I often wondered...there’s a few times he had the opportunity to try, when we were out of the influence of the NFG on Scotland Yard, but he never did. I just thought he was being careful, but...could I have repelled his attempts without knowing?”

“Perhaps.”

“Test it.”

“Beg pardon?”

“Test it. Cast a spell at me? Something you can undo, you know? I’ve seen mages silence people before, stop them talking. You could try something like that, couldn’t you?”

“Gregory, you are untrained. I might injure you.”

“Try. How will I know if you don’t?”

Mycroft sighed. “Don’t resist or this will inflict pain. Most subdual spells do. Just…” He sighed. “Just relax.” Greg watched Mycroft close his eyes briefly, then make a complicated little manoeuvre with his fingers. He felt a wave of...something flow outward and flash over him. He waited, patiently. Nothing happened. He blinked. “What did you do?”

“By all that’s holy….” Mycroft breathed out, shakily. “I attempted to silence you, as you suggested. You should not be able to talk.”

“Well, that worked. You couldn’t have done it wrong?”

“Done it wrong?!” Mycroft’s incredulity was priceless. “Good Gods, Gregorye. You think I don’t know how to cast a simple impediment spell?” He spoke again, a gutteral whisper this time, and again, his fingers executed a complicated little twist. The power flowed out and across Greg’s skin, and this time, he felt it as it washed over him. It was like it didn’t, or couldn’t, stick though. He shrugged. 

“That should have paralised you,” Mycroft said, his voice flat. “Do you realise what this means?”

“I have no fucking clue.”

“You and I need to talk, and urgently. This must have come as a shock, but your skills are….quite honestly I am...” He sighed again, a deep intake of breath and a gusty exhale. “I do not know what to say. This has no precedent. Nobody can do what you have just done, Greg. No one. There is no Source alive who can do this.”

“Look, never mind that for a minute, Mycroft. Exactly what is happening to me? When you come near, I get dizzy. Happened twice now. I’m not daft, there’s something between you and me, isn’t there? Something to do with magic? What are you doing?”

“Me? Nothing at all, if those previous spells are anything to go by. There is nothing I could do. However, when I came through that door, your first question to me was did we know each other, had we met before? In a manner of speaking, we have. We should talk about that too. As Mage Sentinel Prime I consider it my duty to properly inform you, and teach you, everything about yourself.”

“About that,” Greg interrupted. “What became of Magnusson?”

“Oh, him,” Mycroft said offhandedly. “He was... _removed_. He will no longer be a problem. He was getting far too above himself. This might come as a shock to you, but he was a blackmailer, an abuser, not to mention a trafficker…”

“Trafficker? What in?”

“Drugs, people, things of worth, secrets…”

“Jesus. I knew about the blackmailing. Tried it on me…” 

“On you? What did he have on you?”

“I…” Greg’s mouth dried. Nervous, he looked up and into the blue eyes again. “It’s complicated… can we just...clear this up first?”

“Very well. However, if it is something you think I should know…”

“How was Magnusson an abuser?” Greg deflected, and if Mycroft knew he was doing so, he didn’t try press the matter. 

“Blatant abuse of his Source. Asking.... _inappropriate_ things of him. Culverton Smith was to some degree culpable. He was of a rather strange disposition, a little...eccentric in his tastes. He rather sated himself on his mage’s predilections, including an unhealthy desire to humiliate and control. The man had a dungeon in his house, for Gods’ sake. Smith liked to be physically punished when he did something wrong.”

“Takes all sorts,” Greg shrugged. 

“Perhaps, but I find it distasteful that a man of such power and in public office should not keep that private. He enjoyed regaling the rest of us with tales of the latest thing he had done to the man. Personally, I think it was a blatant attempt to intimidate the rest of us. He was not particularly public spirited…” Mycroft sniffed, dismissively. “He has now been… _removed_ from office. The King is content with the decision, and so is the PM, and my coterie is now in power.” For a moment, Mycroft looked dangerous, and Greg caught a glimpse of the real power behind the eyes of the man standing so close. 

“Glad you’re on our side,” he murmured. “I’d hate to be _your_ enemy.”

Surprisingly, Mycroft laughed, a clear joyful sound. “Oh, Gregory, you could always make me laugh,” he said warmly. “As if you of all people could ever be my enemy.”

“I don’t remember. Could I make you laugh? Have we known each other before? Really?”

“You really don’t recall? How...how _sad_.” Mycroft looked crestfallen. “We have had millenia together, you and I. Lifetimes. We were…” He stopped short of admitting any more. 

Greg ignored it for now. “So, you mentioned your… _coterie_? What is that exactly?”

“My team. People I trust, like my assistant, Anthea, and Sherlock and John of course. Hopefully you too.” 

“So we _have_ met before?”

“Many, many lifetimes. Do really you not remember?”

“No...should I?”

“Well, in truth...I had hoped…I never seem to forget. Neither did you, before now.”

“Sorry.” Greg ran his fingers through his hair, nails scratching his skull as if he could encourage the memories to rise. “I know we’ve met, just not where, or when, or how many times. So why do you think he lied, the man who told me I wasn’t magical? He didn’t even know me.” 

“And there I beg to differ, Greg. We have...we _had_...enemies, you and I, in previous lifetimes, across continents, across eons…” 

“Eons? Leave it out. Look, you and I....I’m to believe we were what, together somehow? We knew each other in past lives? What were we, friends?” 

“Yes.” For a moment, Mycroft looked pained, and Greg felt a pang of guilt. 

“Were we... _more_?” he asked, gently.

“Tell me you feel no attraction between us,” Mycroft said gently but firmly, “and I shall leave this instant and never bother you again, beyond what interaction we must have to fulfil our roles.” Mycroft stood away, walked to the window and looked out. He was waiting, Greg realised. Without looking at Greg, Mycroft folded his arms across his chest, oddly defensive. “You must believe me, Gregory, when I say I have been waiting for this moment for a long time. I hoped you would remember, all the times we had, all the adventures, growing up together, growing old together, and...other things.” He paused, staring out over the Embankment with a wistful expression. “If you do not remember, if you do not want what we had, again, with me, now…” The words tailed off. Mycroft took a deep breath and let it go slowly. “I find I am weak enough that I could not bear you as my Source if you do not want...any further intimacy…” The last word was whispered almost too faint for Greg to hear.

For a moment, Greg simply stared at the man. Then, unbidden, a memory returned, of the dream he had experienced the night before his testing at school. “I can’t say that, Mycroft. Look, this is...new to me. Very new. Jesus, you’re...Fuck it, you’re bloody gorgeous, Mycroft. Of course I’m attracted to you. I was from the moment I saw you standing beside your brother. Everything about you...but...what on earth can I hope for with you? I’m nobody. Despite what you say, I’ve spent all my life thinking I’m a dullard, a _nullmaj_ …”

“Never use that word in my hearing again, Gregory. It is insulting and wrong.” 

“Sorry, but I’ve had no training in magic, I’m only a copper, and not a very good one sometimes.…”

“Gregory, stop. If I find out who did this to you, believe me, they will feel the full might of magical law. Threefold return be damned, they will wish they had never been born! To think you have spent your whole life thinking your dream was crushed, that you have been denied the magical training that you might have had...Surely you knew about Sources? Did you never think to apply to be tested?” Greg shook his head.

“I knew,” he admitted. “I just...I couldn’t submit to it. Didn’t want someone else to tell me I wasn’t a Source either….but...there was something else…”

“It makes my blood boil,” Mycroft muttered. “We might have found each other sooner, had longer together, had it not been for the actions of one criminally motivated charlatan!” Anger was turning the mage’s eyes a dark stormy grey. “Whoever he was, he didn’t just affect you, he denied me too. He stopped me from meeting you again. I think, although it will need to be confirmed, that the person who told you may have been someone who has known us both before, someone who sought out an opportunity to thwart you in this life…Perhaps even an associate of Magusson...or Moriarty.”

“Thwart me? Why?”

“You are a warrior, Gregory. You always have been; an advocate, a protector, a defender. What’s more, you are...or could be, a Source of great power. I barely managed to topple Magnusson on my own, and when I say _on my own,_ I mean without a Source. He is an old, old adversary of mine but...with my brother’s help, and John’s, we brought him to book.”

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner? Why now? Couldn’t I have helped you?”

“Possibly, but events conspired to stop me. You had already been diverted from your life path nearly thirty years ago, and I...I realised I could not find you in time. I did not even know you existed. Until we met, until I felt the pull between us… You do not always look the same, Gregory. Sometimes mere looks cannot identify us, but the link we have can. Untrained, there was a chance that Magnusson would have ripped you to shreds, and through you, he might have done the same to me into the bargain. I had no idea you could be an Unraveller. You never were before. In fact you have not always been my Source. That ability evolved only recently compared to the multitude of times we have walked the same path. That aside, I made a grave mistake, Gregory, for which I am not sure you can forgive me…”

“Tell me.”

Mycroft took a deep breath. “When I realised who Magnusson was, I made a decision that affected my whole life. Sherlock had his own enemy to battle at the time, a man named Moriarty. The man hated Sherlock, even while he admired him. He wanted friendship, but they were polar oposites. It could never have been a useful or productive relationship. Moriarty was cruel, ambitious, destructive. Sherlock and John saw off that particular threat three years ago, even though it nearly cost them their lives and their friendship. Sherlock disappeared for two years, John with him, while we all dismantled Moriarty’s network. All bar one… Sebastian Moran, a General in Moriarty's army, a thorn in my side, and elusive. When Moriarty died, he changed his name, and his appearance, and returned, as Charles Augustus Magnusson. Older, wiser, even more dangerous, his heart fueled with revenge. Together with his new Source, Culverton Smith, they rose to power while I was absent overseas. He never saw my face, so he did not know who I was, but the colour of my magic would have told him. I had to keep a very low profile when I returned. I spent time making myself indispensable to the commoner powers, in secret, until I was ready. However, the delay meant he was raised to magus Prime, and made himself even more powerful. It all delayed our coming together, which I had predicted to be years ago...but...I chose to seek his removal, before I devoted time to finding you.”

“So how did you take him down?”

“I had to be subtle, and I could not have done it without some insider help. Yes, I might have revealed myself to you earlier, gone all out to locate you, but I had...an ulterior motive. I did not wish to endanger you. Had you been cognisant of your power, I might have risked it, but honestly, the Cunning Man who diverted you from your path, actually caused greater damage to Magnusson’s plans. You do not know...you do not understand…”

“Understand what?”

“Gregory, you are a warrior, you will always be a warrior...Whether with a sword in your hand, or a gun and handcuffs and the full might of the law behind you, first and foremost you are always a protector. Time and again you have given your life in the cause, for me, to protect me or others, but...this time, I determined you were safer kept in ignorance. I did not want you to fall again, Gregory, and believe me, Magnusson would have destroyed you to get to me.”

“So how did me not knowing about my power damage Magnusson? I get that there wasn’t time to train me…”

“Because you were guided to what you are now,” Mycroft explained. “A policeman. In a way, in this modern age where magic is waning, you were more powerful without Talent. The might of the common law, and of justice, where magic cannot encroach.”

“Explain.”

"While scientific advances have come on leaps and bounds in the last century or so, I'm sure you're aware that magic itself is on the wane. It's a precarious balance." Everybody knew, including the mages, that their power was not as strong as it had been, if the medieval annals were correct. Just nobody talked about it. “Great feats of magic are in the past, Gregory. While it is still useful and helpful and beautiful, magic isn’t as powerful as it used to be, and people are gradually reverting to ordinary ways of working; factories, machinery, technology, and drugs, 

instead of conjuring and manipulation and spells and potions.” Mycroft took the seat across from Greg’s and steepled his fingers under his chin in a gesture reminiscent of his brother. “Let’s face it, the correct ingredients are getting scarce too. You must be aware of the illegal trafficking in some restricted substances? Of the licenses we mages require in order to obtain those ingredients. Despite our combining science with magic to find adequate substitutions, we are well behind in finding things that create the same effects. Not to mention there is a faction of practitioners who disagree with the new ways...”

“So...what you’re saying is...because I didn’t know, because I didn’t...well, _realise_...or because I was lied to, I became what I am now and it was actually _better_?”

“Fewer and fewer children are born who have the Talent as well. We are a dwindling breed, Greg.” 

Even Greg’s own school had boards with the names of all the children who had graduated from it to the local Mage school, but every year it was clear that there were fewer names to add. There had only been those two from his year, three the year before, when looking back, the 1920s and 30s had at least six for each year, even eight in 1926. The older boards, those from Victoria’s era, although faded with age, their gold letters dulled, easily showed ten children with magical ability for every graduation, even if some of those were Cunning folk. “This is a modern age, and magic is perhaps not well suited to this world. Common place skills are replacing magic. Science and technology are better placed to help humanity forward. Those skills we perhaps looked down on two hundred years ago are being hailed as the new way forward. I aim to strive to find a happy medium, but…” Mycroft shrugged, “there are some who are resistant to change.”

“Doesn’t help that the mages have always been....unapproachable, unless you had the Talent yourself. You’re not very popular, you know, not these days.”

“No, I know. So...it begs the question, why did you want it so badly?”

“Because I love my family, and I saw how they struggled, and how poor we were. You never see a poverty stricken magical family, do you? I just hoped...I guess because thirty years ago it was the quick way to prestige and wealth. Mages were respected, and it was something to aspire to. I wanted them to be comfortable…”

“Are they not? Did you not do your best for them anyway?”

“Yeah, I did, but it was a long time before I got enough money to be able to improve things for them. If I’d been magical it would have been a fast track out of the poverty trap. I grew up resenting how a small percentage of mages held a huge percentage of the wealth in this country…” 

“If you knew how Magnusson and his ilk had stymied plans for the improvement of the welfare of this country. He was old school Supremacist nonsense. He manipulated voting you know. He managed to manipulate the elections.”

“How exactly did you take him down?”

“Bit by bit, one chip off the block at a time. It has taken me thirteen months, seven of those in study, three in preparation, three in activation. I managed to discredit Smith, and removed his Source less than two weeks ago. Then I made sure a lot of people knew how illegal Magnusson’s activities were. I have been gradually making myself indispensable to the Crown over the years. Sherlock will tell you my main skill is omnipotence. The new King is more powerful than his grandmother was. His father decided not to take the crown, he was persuaded that it would be best in younger hands.” There was a pregnant pause while both men gave each other an assessing stare. “So...can you forgive me, Gregory?” Mycroft said at last. “I feel you may be justified in being angry that we have wasted most of a life that could have been spent together…”

“I’m not sure _wasted_ is the right word. Wasn’t I angry with you before about this? I have a vague memory of being angry about...always leaving you…? Or is that my imagination?”

“Not your imagination, Gregori,” Mycroft said with a small smile, altering the inflection of his name, and the memories clicked into place. 

“Maecraeft?” The word, _mah-crah-ft,_ sounded wrong in his ears. “Where does that come from?”

Mycroft smiled. “Old English, or Anglo Saxon. Craft used to mean skill, or power, pertaining to magical work. Mae is more, or most. So you do remember, after a fashion? ”

“Some. Bits and pieces...it’s weird. Like I’m remembering a story...someone else’s life…”

“Yours and mine, over and over again.”

“That explains my dreams. I haven’t had them as much recently. When I was a kid, I got them a lot. Like I was someone else. Like I was experiencing someone else’s life.”

“You were experiencing your own life, Gregory. Your own memories.”

“So...why now? Why did you come to me when this is over?”

“Because it isn’t. I need you now, Gregory...Gregórius, or Greogwy, or Gregori, depending when you come from. Were you aware that your name means _watchful_? There is one more great task, if you will agree to aiding me with it?”

“What do you need from me?”

“I need you to become my Source, otherwise Magnusson’s supporters will have the right to overthrow my tenure of this office. No Magus Prime holds this office without a Source these days. They are not considered strong enough. Magnusson’s supporters think I am Sourceless. They will show their hand at the next Council Meeting and expect to take me down.”

“Look, there’s something you need to know, Mycroft. I have a...a past that i’m not proud of…”

“We all do, Gregory.”

“No, listen, please. It’s worse than you think… Somehow I think Magnusson thought he had found out but...I’m not so sure. He never actually said what it was he thought he knew, but the fact remains you need to know. I cannot take this on without honesty, Mycroft. It would lose me my job if anyone found out, but...you should have the complete truth.”

Mycroft put his head on one side, a delicate frown pulling his brows together. “I think...no, I know, whatever you think you are guilty of, it was perhaps the only option for you at the time. You have ever been resourceful and you are a survivor, Gregory.”

“Perhaps, but this is...well, not very honourable or honest.” 

“Tell on then…”

“When I was younger…” Greg paused, swallowed a lump in his throat, “I’m a criminal, Mycroft…”


	5. A Life of Crime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg admits to his past, and Mycroft realises the extent of what was done to him.

_“Greggsy, for Fuck’s sake,” came the hissed voice from the vicinity of the hedge, “what are you doing?”_

_“Calming the dogs down, Phil, what do you think?”_

_“Oh, okay then, but be quick, will ya?”_

_“Okay, okay…”_

_Greg crouched down, making friends with the two rottweilers that had been growling and about to bark minutes before. His mate, Phil, dashed past and made short work of the lock behind them, and Greg sat on the step of the house and petted the dogs who were content to sit on his feet and drool._

_There was nobody in the posh house on the edge of the town. The owners were out for the evening. Greg was on guard outside while his mate went through the place. Gold, silver, it was all at a premium for weight, and they could break it up and sell it for a tidy sum per gram. Phil went for small, easily shiftable stuff too. He never once reneged on splitting what he got with Greg either. Money was tight. It had been what swayed Greg’s mind to do as Phil suggested. Greg’s father had died the previous summer and his mum wasn’t earning enough to make ends meet. They had gone hungry a lot over the last few months and Greg’s own job shelf-filling in a supermarket didn’t add much to the pot. When Phil, who knew about Greg’s skills, suggested they start thieving, Greg had reluctantly agreed, on condition that they only took from people who could afford it. He could handle any guard dogs that might be in place, or any other animals that might be around, and he could sense when people were returning before they were seen, so it naturally fell to Greg to be the look-out. Phil could disable alarm systems and knew how to pick locks. He was also careful to wear gloves, never to leave fingerprints, and they were also both careful to hide their faces. CCTV wasn’t common in the 1980s but it was beginning to make an appearance._

_“Come on, Dr Doolittle, let’s go,” Phil said, ghosting out of the door and away toward the perimeter wall. He was carrying a bag that clinked a little as he moved._

_“Okay. Good haul?” Greg said, leaving the dogs chewing treats behind them._

_“Not much, but enough…” They reached the wall, and helped each other over, and into the alley behind the property. “Should manage a ton each at least.”_

_“Christ, what did you find?”_

_“Gold, and lots of it. Hallmarked, so it’s kosher.”_

_“Bugger, they’re on the way back,” Greg muttered. Disappearing into the shadows, they heard the car returning up the drive._

_“Leg it,” Phil said, beginning to run. They had planned the route out, and split up once they reached the main road. Greg slowed down, reaching a bus stop just as the bus arrived heading for the far end of town. He would travel up so far, then get a bus back, before catching his regular bus home. His mum thought he was out with friends, so returning home this late wouldn’t be out of place._

“We never took that much,” Greg said. “Nothing that insurance wouldn’t pay up for. Nothing irreplaceable either. We didn’t damage anything beyond the locks, and then not even those sometimes. Phil was very good at lock picking. Silver cutlery, gold chains, watches, that was the kind of thing we wanted. Nothing engraved, nothing distinctive. Never gave us a fortune, but it helped. It was cash in hand from Phil's uncle. He was a pawnbroker, family. Phil swore he never told the man who I was either. I didn’t know about it when Phil got in with the wrong crowd,” Greg admitted. Mycroft was still, watching and listening. Greg had no idea how the Mage would take the news. To find out that a policeman had been a petty thief in his youth… He would never have been accepted onto the force in the first place, had he divulged his record, although technically, he didn't have a record. He had never been caught and nobody knew about his activities. There was no evidence, as far as he knew. 

Greg ran a distracted hand through his hair. “I don’t know how Magnusson could have known, but he threatened me that he knew something, what I’d been doing when I was younger.”

“Perhaps your friend was persuaded to talk, to tell Magnusson your secret?” Mycroft suggested. “Maybe he looked into your past, and learned your connection.”

“I very much doubt it, unless he can talk to the dead. Phil was killed in a fight between two rival gangs back in 1986, barely two years since we started. A fight kicked off as he was leaving a pub one night. First I knew was when he didn’t show for the next job we’d planned, or with the money from the last one. I was waiting for him where I usually did, around the corner from my flat. When he didn’t show, I waited for an hour and then went and phoned him. Nothing. I went around to his flat, but there was no answer. So I risked going to the uncle.”

“What happened?”

_“Are you Pete?”_

_“Who are you?”_

_“Mate of Phil’s. He got in back touch a couple weeks ago,” Greg lied. “Not seen him for years, then out of the blue…” He shrugged. “Didn’t show for our meet up yesterday. I remember he was telling me he had an uncle was a Pawnbroker… Thought it was worth a shot. I’ve tried ringing. but there’s no answer.”_

_“Well, sorry to tell you…” the man paused, looking Greg over. “You the other one?”_

_“Sorry?”_

_“The other one, the one he did his jobs with?”_

_“What jobs?” Greg feigned ignorance, despite the jump in his heart rate. He knew he was rather good at lies. Convincing. He remained calm. “No idea what you’re on about, mate. We only got back in touch a fortnight ago. Ran across him and another mate at a coffee shop on the high street. Used to be mates in school. Long time since. I’ve been away, see. Army.”_

_“So when did he mention me then?”_

_“When we were catching up, you know, as you do. Said he was working for his Uncle Pete who was a pawnbroker on Mare Street. So I...thought I’d look you up, see if he was at work today.”_

_The man took a deep breath. “Sorry to have to tell you, mate, Phil’s dead.”_

_“What?” Greg did not have to feign shock, although he suppressed the utter devastation he felt. Phil was his best mate after all._

_“Yeah, he was in a fight two days since outside a pub in Peckham. Knifed. DOA.”_

_“Jesus, that’s...God, sorry. I’m...really very sorry for your loss. Fuck it, Phil was a good mate when we were kids. When’s the funeral?”_

_“Next week. Tuesday.” The man gave him the address of the crematorium._

_“Wish I could be there, but I’m at work. I’ll see if I can maybe swap shifts.” Greg shoved his hands in his pockets. “Guess I’ll make myself scarce then.”_

“That was it. Nothing more to be said. Pete might have sussed me, but he never knew my name though.” 

“Perhaps Magnusson did not know, he just assumed you had something to hide. Not many people are without skeletons in their closet.” Mycroft watched Greg wrestle with obvious discomfort, and he felt a pang of compassion. The young Greg must have been desperate to risk his future on illicit gains. 

“I swear to you, Mycroft,” Greg said sincerely, fearfully, “I _never_ hurt anyone. Wouldn’t have done it bar for the risk of ending up homeless and I didn’t want that for mum. Most of that money went on not losing our house, on keeping a roof over mum’s head, and the rest went on food. It’s stayed with me all my life, the guilt. I’ve tried to atone for it all, but seriously, I’ve always felt a bit of a hypocrite doing this job and knowing I wasn’t much better than the kids I was arresting…”

“I can imagine. I am not condoning it, Gregory. However, you obviously had your reasons at the time, and none of us are perfect. No good telling someone to get a better job, not when the work is not to be had. You are not a violent man, or a cruel one. You use your skills for good.” 

“Yeah, well, I guess, after Phil died, I tried to turn over a new leaf. Ended up doing three jobs to make ends meet. I was pulling sixty hours some weeks. I ended up working in a hotel kitchen, pot washing, as well as shelf filling in Tescos, and part-time at a garage, valeting cars. I was knackered all the time. When I saw the recruitment poster, I jumped at it. Applied to the police when I was 20, got in as a constable. Applied myself, stuck to the rules, used my skills when I could be sure nobody would know about them, and left my past behind. I slowly climbed the career ladder, managed sergeant by the time I was thirty, and then transferred to CID, started to make some real money. Made sure mam was alright, comfortable, you know? Got the position of DI in Serious Crimes at 42. She was so proud.”

“One thing I am not sure I understand.” Mycroft was gazing at him thoughtfully. “In the course of your career and your life, you cannot help but have learned about what a Source does somewhere along the way. Why did you never investigate your own skills as those of a potential Source? It makes no sense.”

“I…” Greg stopped short. _Why didn’t I? That did not make sense._ It wasn’t as if he wasn’t faced with meeting people who held the position, He had come into regular contact—more’s the pity—with Culverton Smith, and Oldacre’s Source, Jeffrey Delmont. Greg certainly knew what some of the individual skills were. He’d never met a Patterner, or a Wildspeaker, but Jeffrey had been a Far Traveller and Smith was an Inspeaker. He had never made the connection between their skills and his. _Why not?_ “Honestly, I have no idea. I never made the connection between my skills and those of a Source, but it was there in front of me all along. How can I have been so fucking stupid?” 

Mycroft sighed, softly. “Honestly, I do not think you are stupid, Gregory. How old were you when you were tested?”

“Puberty, Myc, I was thirteen.”

“I wonder…” 

“What?”

“Thirteen, and impressionable mind, a changing body, a time of flux. The man who tested you, perhaps he accomplished more than seeding doubt in you that day. You believed him, completely. However, you are an unraveller so no _spell_ should have worked on you. Yet if perhaps he accomplished something _before_ your unravelling skills manifested, there is a chance that it stuck. At least, there is a chance that the insidious doubt and dashed hopes of a thirteen year old boy manifested in your mind as...an instruction, an obstruction, a barrier.”

“Someone manipulated me?”

“Tried to. Every time you considered your own skills, if indeed you ever did, every suggestion that it might be possible to be tested as a Source, your brain would have deflected itself, vered away from the opportunity. Perhaps you justified it in your head as being hurt about not becoming a mage, you did not want the rejection of being told you were not a Source either. But…” Mycroft shook his head. “This isn’t merely the dashing of hopes. This is an out and out attack on you, preventing you coming into your power. A simple mind control trick, designed to stop you investigating your own skills, couched in a deep-seated desire not to confront the memories of what went wrong. It did not stop you using what you knew you had, did it?”

“For a long time, I seemed to forget what I could do. Mum thought I was depressed and took me to the docs, and I was on pills for a long time. Didn’t use my skills then.”

“You took to crime, which for you I suspect was highly out of character. Honestly, Gregory, I am not excusing your past, but the more I understand, the more I think that phase was not under your control. The drugs potentially dulled your wits as well. Couple that with whatever the man laid upon you, and you would have had a hard time breaking it.” Mycroft swore, rather nastily, which sounded odd, coming from this normally upright gentleman. “If I _ever_ lay eyes on that loathsome toad, he won’t be drawing breath much longer. He damaged you almost irrevocably. This was a chance meeting between you and I, proving that fate does indeed win through, but we could so easily have missed each other in this life…”

“Mycroft?”

“What?” he snapped, and then cringed. “My apologies, Gregory, it is not your fault.”

“S’okay, but if I’d been angry at you, and refused to cooperate, well, what would you have done?”

“I would have faced this alone, and embraced my fate, knowing that I deserved the outcome for deceiving you. Unless I could find another Source in such a short time, but I doubt I could find one so compatible.” 

“So what do we do? How do we move on from here?”

“By deciding that we wish to move on. However, I still maintain that you should not go into this without full knowledge of the consequences…”

“Mycroft, I’ve been your...Source before, haven’t I? Even if we weren’t at first, we’ve been companions like forever.”

“A companion for whom I hold a great deal of respect and a duty of care. Gregory, a scant half hour ago, you did not know anything about me, and less than forty eight hours ago you had no knowledge of my existence. You have faced the possibility that you do have magical faculties, and that you have been manipulated and lied to. I do not expect you to understand and agree to something that has been dropped on you so… unexpectedly. That would be presumptuous, and foolhardy, not to mention cruel…and I applaud you for being honest with me when in truth you might have left me in ignorance. If Magnusson doesn’t know about your past, then there is little I could have done to divine it.”

“Mycroft, you are not cruel, and no matter what, I wanted a clean slate here. No secrets.”

“I beg to differ. Do you not think it cruel that I withheld this from you when I might have acted sooner? All your resentment, all your struggles…struggles you have confided in me?”

“Look, no good regretting what’s past. It’s gone. No chance to change it. And perhaps it is better not changing it, considering the consequences. My past has made me what I am now. If anything, I’m relieved. Look, we all know it’s a lottery...Anybody can manifest magical capability, and we all have that dream. It used to mean honour and prestige to the family, a pension for life...Not to mention the comforts magic can provide… I never had any of that. But...it made me who I am now. I can’t change that. No more would I want to, really. I made sure my family was safe and comfortable through hard graft and I can be proud of what I did, even if I'm not proud of the illegal bits. Now.. _._ as to going into this blind…” Greg sat up a bit straighter. “ _A Source is tied to their Mage, bound by mind and body, to lend strength to the Mage in pursuit of their goals,”_ Greg recited from memory. “ _A good Source is mentally stable, assertive, and grounding, the unshakable bedrock on which his mage stands.”_ Greg grinned. “Memorised that in school.”

“You read the Annals of Magical Society?”

“Some of it. It was a very old copy and it didn’t have much more about what a Source was, in truth. I just wanted to be prepared for when they told me I was a mage.”

“You were 13. You read the Annals when you were 13?” Mycroft looked incredulous.

“Yeah, well…okay, so it was a bit of a tome. I didn’t get through it _all_. It’s worse than War and Peace. And...thinking about it, apart from that bit...I can’t remember much more about what a Source is. If it even had any more. As I said, it was a very old book.”

“Dear Gods, Greg…” Mycroft looked, if anything, more concerned. “I am _truly_ sorry, Gregory. How crushed you must have felt to be rejected.”

“Yeah well, not crushed now, thanks. All that reading was useful in understanding my role in Liaison.” Greg fixed Mycroft with a look. “What changed, do you think? I mean, it can’t have been a geas, can it? Wouldn’t that have resulted in something more...I dunno, drastic?”

“A geas can result in problematic effects but not always. However, I rather think the power that this has held over you relied upon your youthful vulnerabilities to reinforce your own fears and insecurities. Neuro-linguistic programming, of a kind. Manipulative, cruel, and ultimately unsuccessful.”

“My point being, though, I do know what this means, even if I was kept ignorant of what a Source actually does for so long. It’s closer than marriage, more intimate than sex. Effectively we will be soulmates, won’t we? Live together, work together…”

“Yes, but…” Mycroft hesitated. “Should you wish it, I would not object to your continuance in your role here. After all, a Liaison who is also a Source should be even better at his job, would you not agree?”

Greg chuckled. “Yeah, I guess. Although, if I become your Source, it’ll attune me to magic, won’t it? Might not be able to work here. What with the null-field. Come to that, how are you able to stand it? I know Magnusson never stayed long. Isn’t it supposed to make you feel ill?”

“It is, at best, mildly irritating, at worst it is nausea inducing. Sources do not react the same way to it. However, I have inured myself to the effects over time, trained myself to ignore a certain level of null field without too many ill-effects. It is well within my purview as one of the most powerful mages of this time.”

“Modesty becomes you, Mycroft.” Greg tried not to smile. Mycroft pursed his lips in an effort not to laugh. His eyes danced. 

“And there lies the reason why you would be a perfect Source,” he said. “Nobody else could call me out and make me smile while doing so. You are also unique, you know. No Source has ever been able to access all the skills, there have been no recorded instances since the ability was discovered and identified. John Watson can manage only two of the skills, Inspeech and patterning, and that is highly unusual, if not unheard of. There have been instances of Sources competent in two areas before but it is not common.”

“So what now?” Greg said. “Some kind of esoteric ritual at full moon or...I dunno, exchanging vows? What?”

“Vows, yes. Perhaps in a more...comfortable setting?”

“Where did you have in mind?”


	6. Bonding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg and Mycroft tie the knot, in a manner of speaking.

“Seriously?” Sherlock stared at both men, while John grinned at them from behind the Mage’s shoulder. “You are determined to pursue this foolishness?”

“I am,” Mycroft said, fingers entwined with Greg’s. They had disappeared to Baker Street, Sherlock’s lodgings, as fast as Mycroft’s ministry car could get them there. A quick word with Greg’s Superintendent and he was signed off for the rest of the week. He had apologised to Sally and asked her to continue the case, to text if anything really important came up, then he had followed Mycroft out of the building and into a waiting car. 

Sherlock sighed dramatically. “Do you have rings? Vows? Witnesses?”

“This isn’t a wedding, Sherlock,” Mycroft protested. “I called the Registry Office. They are sending someone qualified.”

“Wait, what? They’re coming here?” John asked. “Jesus, I need to tidy the place…”

“Qualified in what?” Sherlock demanded. “Do they know the rite? Did you specify what you needed?”

“Rite?” Greg echoed, slightly worried.

“Yes, _rite_ ,” Sherlock repeated.

“Oh, for God’s sake, it’s fine, Greg,” John said, taking pity on him. “Nothing untoward, but the Temple insists on a Rite of Bonding to be witnessed according to strict guidelines. Not all registrars are trained to record it correctly. If there’s a problem, if something gets missed, then the contract can be thrown out in law.”

“And we don’t want that,” Sherlock snapped. “If my brother intends to consolidate his position, he needs you as his Source, properly Bonded to him, and he doesn’t need any mistakes in the recording of the Rite. What have you asked for?”

“Pardon?” Greg was nonplussed. “What have I asked who for?”

Sherlock stopped, eyebrows raised. “Dear God, what is it like in your little brain? It must be _so_ peaceful. Yes, what have you asked my brother for? You would be within your rights to make demands. He _needs_ you, Greg. You could ask for anything, anything at all. A new car perhaps? A luxury apartment? A small country? I do assure you it is within my brother’s capability to deliver…I believe Capri is currently without a ruler...”

“No.” 

“No?”

“No. This is...too important. Wouldn’t be right,” Greg muttered, darkly. 

“Are you sure?” Sherlock invaded Greg’s personal space, eyes roaming over his face. “I do assure you, he needs you more than you need him. The world is your oyster, Inspector. Now’s your chance to make on the deal. You could at least demand a salary. A stipend, an allowance, whatever you choose to call it. God knows, you’ll need one. I very much doubt that you’ll be going back to your beloved Yard. Have you told him why, Mycroft?”

“Mycroft told me I could continue working…”

“Of course he did. Anything to get you to agree…”

“Mycroft?”

“Sherlock, stop being tedious. Gregory has every right to go back to work at the Yard…”

“Until you realise you don’t want to let him out of your sight, and that you’ll need your Source of Power beside you more and more…” Sherlock fixed his brother with a glare. “You are the virgin where utilising a Source is concerned, brother dear. Believe me, you will not want to let him out of your sight after a while.”

Mycroft sighed, defeated.

“Myc, is that right?” Greg was gazing at him expectantly. 

“It...could be. I can’t lie and say it won’t happen...I...I have every intent to allow you to work wherever you wish. I am not your keeper, despite the bleak picture my brother insists on painting.”

“So...not so appealing now, is it?” Sherlock said, fixing his pale glare on Greg again. “You should reconsider, and if you’re still determined to go through with this, then demand something extravagant. You’ll see how much this means to him then.”

“No,” Greg said quietly. “I won’t prostitute myself for something this important. I don't expect you to understand, but I wanted this my whole life. Well, not quite this. I wanted to be a mage, but that wasn't to be.”

“I can identify with that,” Sherlock said. “I wanted to be a pirate, and look how that turned out.” 

“Well, looks like if I can’t be a mage, then at least I can be a source, and apparently a strong one, so that'll be next best then. Besides, he’ll have plenty of time to give me a comfy life, because I think we might end up living together, and I don’t need much to be content…”

Sherlock laughed, a bark of sound that startled him. “Good Gods, Mycroft,” he said, incredulous, “I think you’ve found an honest one.”

“Of course he is, Sherlock,” Mycroft endorsed. “Gregory and I know each other of old.” 

A knock on the door interrupted them and presently, Mrs Hudson led a thin man upstairs who carried a leather briefcase in his hand and an expression of curiosity on his narrow face. John hastily tipped the pile of magazines he had been tidying behind the chair. 

“My name is Holloway,” the man said affably. “Ambrose Holloway, Senior Registrar. I am told there is to be a Magical Bonding?” He actually looked delighted.

“Yes, there is. Could we see credentials please?” John asked, and the man smiled and presented him with his ID. John handed it to Mycroft who looked and nodded.

“Thank you, Mr Holloway. I wish for an expeditious Bonding to my new Source, and we need it ratifying as fast as possible.” He handed the man his own identification and watched the man’s eyebrows rise. 

“Dear me, Magus Prime, it would be a sincere pleasure. Who is the lucky person?” It was obvious to everyone that the man did not assume gender. 

“Allow me to introduce you to Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade.” The two men shook hands, and then the Registrar extracted the relevant papers from his briefcase.

“Here we are,” he said, flourishing the sheaf of parchments. “May one ask when you wish the happy event to be held?” He was met by a rather pregnant silence, which Sherlock broke with a chuckle. 

“We need it to be done now,” Mycroft insisted. “If my brother, Sherlock, and his Source, Doctor Watson, agree to stand as witnesses, then I am afraid it is a matter of National Security that this be processed as fast as humanly possible.”

The thin man allowed a frown to furrow two lines between his brows. “National Security?” Greg could just about see the cogs turning in Ambrose’s brain. “Alas,” he began, “if that is the case, then I am afraid I must insist upon a different witness, your Eminence. Under the circumstances, considering your rank, I anticipate that your Council will insist on someone unrelated to you to give due testimony to your union. This is...to put it delicately, _hurried_. There has been no preparation, no planning, no prior notice, which is, if you will forgive the formality, something that could cast doubt upon the validity of the union in question.” 

Mycroft considered the observations and then nodded. “I understand your reservations,” he said, quietly. 

“Do not misunderstand, your Eminence, I am merely pointing out where you might experience difficulty…” 

Greg flashed a winning smile at the man, trying to reassure. He instinctively liked the conservative and somewhat Victorian demeanor. Ambrose was doing his best to facilitate while faced with a potentially difficult situation. He wanted attention to detail, nothing missed, no stone unturned. In that regard, Greg could identify with him. 

“Don’t worry on our account,” he said reassuringly. “I am sure my...partner, wants the most watertight case you can provide. If it helps, I am doing this of my own free will, just so you know. I haven’t been coerced.”

“Thank you for that reassurance, Detective Inspector,” Ambrose replied with a grateful smile. 

“So, who else might we approach, and quickly?” Mycroft asked the room in general. 

“Your brother is of course welcome to be present at the ceremony, guests are not discouraged, although we are not gathered together in front of a host of friends and family in some exalted location more befitting the circumstances. As I have already pointed out, and at the risk of repeating myself, such a rushed affair can only cast doubt on the veracity of your decision and position. Now…” The man paused, glancing from one to the other. “You gentlemen do not have to take my advice, but if this course of action that you are embarking upon is as necessary as you say, for that to pass muster with anyone in a position to challenge…” He gave them a small, almost shy smile, “we need to be seen to be completely above board, in compliance with the letter of the law.” He looked at Greg. “Most especially since one of the gentlemen involved is an officer of said law. Now, while I have no wish to discourage you from the urgency of this task, I sense you are both men of honour and intelligence so I therefore elect to speak plainly to you both. It would be better had you announced your intentions, given fair warning, and organised an appropriate and rather public ceremony, but...you have not the time. So, you,” he said, looking at John, “will be fine, sir. You are in a reputable position, and you are not related to either of the participants. However…you are bonded to Mr Holmes’ brother, so be prepared to be challenged. Under law, however, it is permissible. As to the other one...”

“Mrs Hudson maybe? She’s our landlady,” John suggested. “Is there a restriction on age or anything?”

“Just someone of sound mind, that is all.”

“Don’t move,” he declared. “I’ll go ask.” John disappeared through the door. 

“I doubt Mrs Hudson will pass up a chance like this,” Mycroft suggested. “If she has reservations, I shall need to call my assistant, Anthea…”

“Are there rings, or tokens of any kind to be exchanged?”

“Not at this juncture,” Mycroft said. “I am sorry, Gregory. This should be a joyous occasion, and we are rushing things.”

“Don’t worry, Myc. I mean, not like I’ve not done the whole ceremony thing before, and look how that turned out, but...let’s do this, right now, right here. I don’t need tokens. I know what I’m getting into.” 

“I wonder…” Sherlock muttered, and without another word he dashed off into his bedroom. They could hear him rummaging around for something, periodic curses reaching their ears. 

“If indeed you decide against this at some future point,” Mycroft murmured. “I assure you, Gregory, that it is dissolvable in law...I will not hold you to a relationship you do not wish to continue.”

“Mycroft, give it a chance, mate. We’ve not even started yet,” Greg said with a grin, although he was far from sure in his own mind. The cold logical part of him tried to tell him to slow down, to consider every angle, but the emotional part, the lonely, passionate part of him that was more than a little attracted to the man standing beside him looking so hopeful, was heedless. For Greg there was also an element of duty to all of this. It was the right thing to do, and he knew it was. 

“Here!” Sherlock said, returning with dramatic flare. He held a small box in his hand and thrust it out to Mycroft. His brother hesitated, then took it, and opened the small box with a look of wonder on his face.

“Sherlock...I thought this was lost…”

“I always meant to tell you…”

“How?”

“After Musgrave...I grabbed my bag from under the bed before we ran...I forgot, it was in an inside pocket.” He turned to look at Greg. “It was our great grandfather’s Family ring. Well, if you join forces with my brother, you will technically be part of the family. He was a mage of some note.”

“Sherlock, I had no idea you had this. I thought…"

“I stole it from you one day when you were being a pig…but you never realised.” 

Mycroft shook his head, exasperated. “I never thought I would be glad for your bratty ways, brother mine.” Mycroft extricated the ring from its velvet prison and turned it in his fingers. The sound of puffing and feet on the stairs reached their ears and presently, John appeared with Mrs Hudson in tow. 

“What is all this now?” she said. “John says you need a witness? To what exactly?”

“Our union, Mrs Hudson,” Greg said. “Mycroft and I are...getting hitched, if you like. I’m going to be his Source.”

“Oh, my,” the lady said. “Well, in that case, of course I’ll be a witness.” 

The ceremony itself was short, perfunctory even. Ambrose produced some cards with formal phrases written on them. He suggested Sherlock record the proceedings on his phone, which he got ready to do, somewhat gleefully. Also, with a wave of his hand and a few muttered words, Sherlock activated their warding spells, making sure nothing could interfere with the actual ceremony, and then they began. Formal vows were recited, promises made, the ring was placed on the only finger it would fit, which was Greg’s ring finger, although it was by tradition supposed to sit on the middle finger of his left hand. Marriage and Sourcehood were not by any means the same thing. Historically there had been Sources married to someone outside of the Mage/Source relationship, but it was rare. Most Mages and their Sources did not formalise their relationship beyond the Mage Bond, considering marriage to be somewhat superfluous. Greg privately hoped it was prophetic, but Mycroft assured him they would have it resized for him to fit the proper finger. There was a crest on it, a crowned griffon rampant against a green background, and a motto, Magia est Vita. Magic is Life. 

“I now pronounce this Mage Bond ratified and valid under law, common and otherwise, on this, the fourteenth of May, in the year 3842ME, 2020AD. Congratulations, Gentlemen. If I may borrow your table, I shall have your certificate written up in no time. I will, of course, digitise it immediately and enter it into the annals before I leave. Then there can be no doubt of its validity. I need names and addresses of witnesses, and your signatures too, please. Then do please call me as a witness to the proceedings should a challenge occur in the future. I have an audio recording of my own, I never go anywhere without making a record, because some people do like to press a point sometimes...”

“We should celebrate this moment,” Mrs Hudson declared. “Hasn’t anyone got champagne?”

“As if I carry a bottle of Moet on my person at all times,” Mycroft muttered, and Greg chuckled at the dry sense of humour that part of him had inexplicably missed.

“I think I may have something,” Sherlock said, investigating his drinks cabinet. “As long as John hasn’t left the cupboard bare…” There was a complaining “Oi!” from the direction of the kitchen, and Sherlock grinned. “Here we are,” he added, holding a dusty bottle of amber liquid. “As is only proper on these occasions, I have mead.” John appeared with glasses. “Kettle’s on as well, in case anyone wants a cuppa before they go.”

Everyone drank a toast and Mrs Hudson got a little teary eyed and said how lovely it was, and how proud she was, and that they should have a bigger ceremony when there was time, and she would do the catering, they only had to ask… John eventually escorted her back down to her flat only after she’d insisted on photos of the happy couple…

“It’s not a wedding, Mrs Hudson,” John kept reminding her but it didn’t seem to matter. Mrs Hudson was insistent and eventually got her way, John taking a few snaps of her with her ‘boys’, and then Ambrose obliged by taking one of them all, Greg and Mycroft in the middle, shoulder to shoulder, smiling affably. Finally the certificate was done, Ambrose left and Mrs Hudson was shepherded back downstairs. 

“Now what?” Greg asked when everything had quieted down.

“Now, you and my brother need to attune,” Sherlock said.

“Attune?” Greg echoed.

“Yes. You need to be in sync, as it were, with his magic. You need to find your own too. That might take training.”

“How long might that take?”

“Moments, or days… depends on you really,” Sherlock said. “Individuals are unique, so there’s no rule of thumb there. Usually happens within the first week though.”

“I think it might be a good idea if you came to live with me for a while, Gregory,” Mycroft suggested. “We can work on this together…”

“Which is what you’ll need to be, _together_ ,” Sherlock said pointedly.

“Yes, Sherlock, together,” Mycroft repeated, willing Greg to understand. 

“It’s okay, Love,” Greg said. “I get it. We’ll need to...um...to _get close_ , find out how we _fit._..you know? Find out _what we like_ ….” He risked reaching out to stroke a finger down Mycroft’s cheek. 

“God, Lestrade, could you be a little less... _graphic,_ please…” Sherlock complained.

“Why would I? I mean, you are perfectly right. I need to be with your brother….as close to him as I can get, actually…” he leered at Sherlock.

“For God’s sake…” Sherlock flung himself up and disappeared into his bedroom with a bang of the door. John started laughing.

“Well, that got rid of him. You two off now?”

“Yes, John,” Mycroft said with a smile. “I rather think we’ve outstayed our welcome.”

John grinned. “No, you haven’t. Come back any time. If you need help, you know where we are. When are you attending Council?”

“The recess is over in two days. We will need the attunement ceremony tomorrow, always supposing you two are willing and able to attend as our Guardians. If he objects, will you please let me know as soon as possible. I fear the sight of me naked might result in him throwing a strop…”

“Nonsense,” John said. “We will be there. When though?”

“It isn’t a long ceremony. I shall have Anthea book the room for us. Shall I text you?”

“As long as it isn’t before lunch.” John chuckled. “Let me know, I’ll make sure we’re there.”

“It is woefully inadequate time-wise, but we shall make of it what we can. I shall be spending the rest of our time schooling Gregory in his...duties,” Mycroft said. “As Source to Magus Sentinel Prime, he will have a lot to learn.”

“Better get a move on then,” Greg suggested. “Time is of the essence.” A warm hand in the small of his back was a welcome surprise. Mycroft guided him out to the waiting car.


	7. Preparations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg's first night at Mycroft's home. Preparations and plans are discussed.

They stopped briefly at Greg’s own flat to fetch an overnight bag with some clothes, then sped on their way to Mycroft’s apartment in Mayfair. The place made Greg’s little one bedroom flat feel like a matchbox. The windows were large and the ceilings were high, the living room alone was bigger than Greg’s whole flat. The decor was all muted pastels and greys and dark curtains and feature walls and modern fittings. It was all warm wood and a certain scandinavian feel to it. The carpets were thick, there was underfloor heating, and squashy sofas seemed to be the order of the day.

“Please, make yourself at home,” Mycroft prompted. “Can I get you a warm drink? The air has a definite chill tonight.”

“Sure. Tea please. Had enough coffee to last a lifetime.”

“Are you hungry? We didn’t stop for dinner.”

“Take out?” Greg suggested. “Or don’t you stoop so low?”

“Nonsense, Gregory, of course I order in occasionally. What do you prefer, Thai? Chinese? Italian?”

“Italian would be nice, but no pizza, please…”

“I have the very thing. I know somewhere that does an amazing cannelloni…”

An hour later they were seated at the dining table, contentedly making their way through calzone and gnocchi. Mycroft had produced a rather nice red wine that was currently making its way through Greg’s system in a pleasant buzz. Mycroft pushed the plates aside and asked him something. Greg focused on the man and frowned.

“Sorry, miles away. What did you say?”

“I said, now we are replete, I would like to talk, to prepare you for tomorrow…but you look about ready to fall over. I think you should perhaps get some rest instead.”

Greg yawned and stretched, shaking his head. “Is it important? I mean, it's only two days to Council…”

“It can wait until you are rested enough to know what you are doing. You look all in.”

“I am a bit. Sorry…” Greg paused to yawn. “I feel like I’m wasting time here.”

“Not at all. Would you prefer the guest room or...would you consider…?” Mycroft paused, fixing Greg with those lovely blue eyes again. His cheeks were stained faintly pink, which in all honesty could be attributed to the wine, but Greg wondered. 

“Would it be inappropriate to ask if I could share your bed?” Greg asked, preempting Mycroft, chancing his arm on what the man had been about to ask. Mycroft’s pupils dilated a little. Greg smiled, soft and gentle, patient. Mycroft had to clear his throat before he spoke. When he did, his voice had dropped to a murmur. 

“Of course you may,” he said, a little huskily. “I had no intent to...well, to overset you on your first night here…”

“Not overset, just tired and fed up of being lonely. Company would be nice.” 

“Then company you shall have. In truth, I have waited for this for a long time.”

Mycroft led him to a palatial bedroom, it’s windows closed over with dark velvet curtains, the vast bed just begging him to climb in and experience luxury.

“Bathroom is through there,” Mycroft said, indicating the door with a wave of his hand. “Do please go first.”

Greg needed no further prompting. 

“Christ, your bathroom is posh. Love the tiles.” He ran a hand over the glossy green, mapping the relief pattern of leaves under his fingertips. He let the sensation wash through him, cool, clean, smooth. Like Mycroft himself, part of him thought, amusement rippling through him. 

Mycroft smiled again, pleased. “They’re original Minton, Art Nouveau style.”

Mycroft seemed to love compliments concerning his design choices for his home. Greg had been rather vocal concerning colours and decorations when they had first arrived. He liked everything. Mycroft disappeared into the ensuite while Greg disrobed and folded his clothes carefully and laid them on the chair. No casually dropping his dirty socks on the floor here. It struck him that this was probably where he would be living soon. Getting to see Mycroft on his pillow every morning. The thought sent a thrill through him. It had been a rather emotional day all things considered. He was already drifting when Mycroft returned, fully clad in striped flannel PJs. Greg wondered if he could look more adorable…

“Oh. Sorry. Hope you don’t mind but...I don’t usually wear much in bed.” As it was he had only left his boxers on. 

Mycroft stopped as if the thought hadn’t occurred to him and blinked. “Quite alright, Gregory,” he managed. “Each to his own for comfort. It does not distress me.”

“Good then...just...didn’t want to overset you, this being my first night here and all.”

Mycroft hesitated, then allowed a broad grin to blossom when he heard his own words parroted back at him.

“Tease,” he accused, climbing into bed. He settled primly on his own side of the big mattress, busying himself fluffing his pillows. 

“Jesus, Myc, you’re a bus ride away from my side of the bed. Move a bit closer, would you?” Greg suggested. “Honestly, you’re miles away. I don’t bite. Unless you ask nicely,” he added, cheekily.

“I was...giving you space,” Mycroft replied, a little flustered. “Gregory, this is a first time in a lot of ways, for both of us. I am not going to crowd you or demand anything of you. I know we are bonded but I want you to be comfortable. Your memory is hazy concerning our prior... _liaisons_. I do not expect you to carry on where we left off, considering you cannot actually remember the last time that we were together. Besides, you _are_ tired, it has been a challenging day, and it is not over yet. This is the first of many challenging days to come. You don’t need fuss or further stress right now.”

“You don’t need to worry. Honestly. Thank you for your consideration, but I’m perfectly comfortable, Mycroft. Who couldn’t be comfortable in this bed?” Greg stretched luxuriously. “It’s positively sinful.” 

“You know what I mean,” Mycroft admonished him. “However, you are correct. A good bed is important. I need my rest, chiefly because my work relies on stamina…” Mycroft paused, then fixed him with a look. “In all likelihood, you have no idea how we mages work…”

“I know a bit, but,” Greg shrugged, “I’m not one. So I don’t actually know the nuts and bolts. I’ve been liaison for a while though, so I’ve picked up a bit of info along the way, and I’ve been a guest at the Temple a couple of times, but beyond that...I get that I’ve probably got a lot to learn.”

“It won’t be too hard to learn,” Mycroft said, trying to reassure. “For an intelligent man such as yourself, and especially not for someone who attempted to read the Annals at thirteen. You need to learn the physical nature of Sourcing, but you won’t need to learn how to cast, so there won’t be complicated reams of information or gestures to learn.”

Greg grinned and rolled over, closing the distance between them. “So,” he began, carefully, “how _exactly_ does one become a Source? Did you mention something about Sherlock seeing you naked? What was that about?” 

Mycroft froze and his eyes slid shut. He had been expecting to broach the subject delicately over breakfast. “Could this possibly wait until tomorrow?”

“I guess...you’re tired too?”

“No...but...it is a delicate subject. I thought that _you_ were the one who was tired.”

“Okay, I guess I am, but I don’t want to wait if there’s something that’s going to freak me out…Won’t be able to sleep if I’m worrying about what’s to come.”

“Gregory, do you trust me?”

“I guess...yes. I mean, no good being your Source unless I trust you.”

“Then leave it until tomorrow. Nothing about it should freak you out, as it were. Get your rest, and let me get mine, and I will tell you everything tomorrow.” 

“Okay, I’ll take your word for it. Sleep well, Mycroft.”

“You too, Gregory.” Relieved, Mycroft settled for sleep, amazed and delighted that Gregory really did seem to trust him. He could only hope he would have no issues with the attunement process.

**0000000**

The bed was cold and empty when Greg woke the following morning. He hadn’t thought about what he was going to do about work and was shocked that it was already after nine. He was normally behind his desk by now. The door opened and Mycroft appeared, clad in paisley dressing gown and slippers, carrying a tray with tea things on it. A steaming teapot and two cups were accompanied by a plate with a pile of toast, and all the trimmings. 

“I brought breakfast. True to my promise, we should discuss our itinerary for the next few days. We have lots to do today. We need to acquire new robes for you, and then there is the matter of your initiation.”

“Initiation? Jesus,” Greg replied. “Bit esoteric…”

Mycroft watched as Greg sat up, the covers falling from his shoulders, revealing rather more of him than Mycroft was entirely comfortable with. Those shoulders were broad, and a dusting of dark hair covered his chest and disappeared below the sheet, drawing Mycroft’s eyes like a magnet. He tried valiantly to pull his attention back to the task in hand.

“You need to be attuned to me, to the vibration of my energies. You are to become a focus for my power, and you will need to know how my power feels, how to recognise its frequency. You will need to know how to stop me drawing too much through you, not to mention how to feed my power when it is depleted. You do have your own power, all Sources do, but your stamina can be affected. You need to understand your limits as well as mine.”

“I know that much, yes. A Source is someone who grounds you as well.”

“Yes,” Mycroft smiled. “I may resist, because I am my own man, but...ultimately, I will respond to you. Do not underestimate your own strength, Gregory. Did you never wonder why Magnusson could not intimidate you? He moaned about it long enough when he returned to Temple.”

“He did?” Greg was surprised, and secretly pleased. “Is that because I’m a…what was it? I unravel?”

“You are an Unraveller, yes. I suspect Magnusson did try to cast something on you, or charm you, or compel you in some way, and he failed. Bent everyones’ ears about it as well. That’s partially why Sherlock sought you out to work with when he returned. He was bound to like anybody who could piss Magnusson off, and he wanted to uncover your secrets too.”

“Not my finest hour, making such a powerful enemy. Why did Magnusson not get someone to attack me the old fashioned way?

“You are a pattener, don’t forget. You have a reputation as a good fighter, Gregory. You are not easy to face off against. Even if he did not deduce that in you, he would know that anyone he sent would have been up against that, but anything happening to you would garner suspicion, at least until he could provide a watertight alibi, and he could not risk drawing undue attention to himself until he was secure in his power. While he projected an aura of menace, in truth it intimidates commoners, but less so mages. In all his nefarious dealings, he has only dealt with two corrupt policemen and they approached him, not the other way around.”

“Who?” Greg demanded to know. “They should be suspended…”

“In time, my dear, do not fret. When the time is right, we will catch up with them, and then I will be more than happy to hand them to you. Time and place. They will keep, for now. Once I am ratified and unchallenged, we can root out the rotten apples.”

“Can’t believe Magnusson was unable to affect me. He always managed to rattle my cage…”

“Yes, but he was unable to influence you, you were not open to joining him, to gaining benefits from working with him, and you were not open to bribery.

Mages are capable of using their will to bend others’ and make them do what they wish. This was not apparently possible with you. He also fears my brother’s talents for seeking out truth. There’s a reason that Sherlock is the equivalent of a detective in our ranks. Admittedly Magnusson was biding his time where you were concerned. I am under no illusions that he would have attempted to take you out of the picture eventually, but I got to him first.” 

Greg swallowed on a suddenly dry throat. “You mean he...might really have...even if he guessed I was a pattener...”

“Even a pattener would have a hard time avoiding an assassin’s bullet. However, you do not need worry about him any longer. His Source is gone, and he himself is incarcerated awaiting the judgement of Council. Don’t worry. They all know him for what he is. People like Magnusson don’t often make mistakes, but he underestimated me, and got a bit above himself. He has supporters, so we must be careful, but if we present a united front, all should be well. Take your place as my Source and you will also be protected to some degree. However, I do think you perhaps do not need my protection, not if what I suspect about your skills is true.”

“Your brother managed to get through quite a few Sources before he met John. Had a few in tears. Is that normal behaviour for a Source? I mean, I thought they were supposed to have a spine.”

“You _have_ met my brother?” Mycroft queried, one eyebrow raised. Greg was beginning to understand what that eyebrow rise meant; irony, exasperation, incredulity. It was the Mycroftian reaction to examples of the world’s infinite capacity for stupidity, including his brother’s. “Unfortunately it is a common enough occurrence where my brother is concerned. Rather a surprise when John managed to stick to him, not to mention proving to have nerves of steel.”

Greg smiled. “So it can happen, that Mage and Source just...don’t get along?”

“It can happen, yes. I think my headstrong brother would not listen when his first Sources tried to curb his actions. He is very strong willed. Trying to confine Sherlock is a dangerous game. He does not like to be...restricted.”

“So, restricting a mage is...what, necessary? Do you get out of control often?” Greg was teasing, Mycroft could see, but it was a serious question, nevertheless.

“You will be able to sense it when I am nearing my limits. A mage is not omnipotent, despite Sherlock's opinion of me. Limits are dangerous for a mage. If I overstretch, my recovery time can be quite long. I cannot afford to deplete my resources beyond a certain level. Sometimes it is necessary, in extremis, but that is what you are for. A mage is more powerful with a fully attuned Source. We are greater than the sum of our parts. A bonded mage is able to accomplish far more than an unsourced acolyte.”

“Okay, so...you were going to tell me exactly how I become your Source?” 

“Firstly, we need a private Sphere at the Temple.”

“A what?”

“A sphere. It is a sealed room for practicing magic. There must be another Mage/Source couple to oversee the process. I have already proposed Sherlock and John. They are a competent and very powerful couple, and I trust them both.”

“Okay, agreed.”

“This will most likely test you to the limit, Gregory, in body and mind. I cannot lie and say there is no risk, you need to be fit and healthy, which I assume you are. How long since you gave up smoking?”

“Three years.”

“A cleansing rite would still be recommended in your case then. Any health issues?”

“Not that I know of.”

“No heart problems, high blood pressure, that kind of thing? I suggest John gives you an examination beforehand. He is a fully qualified doctor.”

“Agreed. Good idea. So what does a cleansing rite consist of?”

“Think of it like a sauna and a bath with magic attached.”

“Sounds fun.”

“And then, we take our places in the sphere. Inside a sphere we can let magic loose without it escaping elsewhere, effectively shielded from interference. Nothing can get in, nothing can get out. In it, we can attune safely.” 

“So how exactly do we attune?”

“I open up my magical channels, and you allow yourself to feel those channels and your body will do the rest.”

“You sure about that?”

“Quite sure. If we are compatible, you will know. I am afraid…” Mycroft hesitated, “...we..um...we have to be naked for the actual rite, we can allow nothing artificial to get in the way.”

“Ohhh, okay, this is where the nakedness comes in, eh? Um...it doesn’t involve...you know...no _sex_...or anything?”

“Heavens, no, Gregory. That is the Great Rite you are thinking of.” Mycroft paused. “I might occasionally wish to use such a rite in my magical work...but only if you are agreeable. I would never do anything that made you uncomfortable, Gregory.”

Greg smiled, showing teeth, his brown eyes dancing with amusement. “We certainly do not have anything like that as part of an attunement. We have _observers,_ in our case Sherlock and John, and that is all. John will stand near you, and Sherlock near me. If either one of us looks like he is in distress, the rite will be halted. They have the obligation to stop us if it looks problematic.” 

“How might it be problematic?”

“Gregory, I do not want to put you off, but...honestly, the attunement has been known to cause stress on the body. Your heart rate might rise, your blood pressure may dip or climb, you may feel nauseous or dizzy. That kind of physical effect is quite common. Your senses will be trying to balance themselves with mine, and each of us will be trying to reach a biological compromise. It has been known to trigger panic attacks in some people. The effects are not usually life threatening, unless they are extreme, which is rare. In that event John and Sherlock know to act fast, but act they will. Our safety will be paramount.” 

“Good to know. So apart from being stark bollock naked in a bubble of a room with your brother and his mate watching, and potentially throwing up all over the place, what else should I know?”

Mycroft could not help the smile at Greg’s dry humour, his pragmatic attitude. “Attunement is the easy part,” he said. “That should feel like...well, honestly, I have no idea. I have never been attuned before.”

“You have never… really? How the Hell have you managed to reach Magus Prime?”

“I did not lie to you, my power is quite copious. I am afraid I rather hid what I could do from people, as did Sherlock, until I knew they would have a hard time challenging me. Once Sherlock was attuned to John, he thankfully was on my side to back my position. I could not challenge Magnusson’s hold until I was in a position to win.”

“Why the fuck do you want me for your Source, Myc? I mean...if you can accomplish that on your own, are you sure I'll be strong enough for you? You could have your pick of potential sources...”

“I have not waited this long just to choose someone else, Gregory. As has already been stated, you are _unique_. Nobody has ever, and I mean ever, controlled all five disciplines of a Source. It just should not be possible. And yet, here you are. Why on earth would you think that I would want anybody else for my source? To say that your confidence in yourself has been devastated by what happened when you were thirteen is an understatement. If you agree, once we are attuned, I want to access those memories, and learn exactly who was the Cunning Man who tested you. If he is still alive, he should be brought to book for what he did. I wonder who else he did it to and why?”

“You really think it was someone who has it in for us from a past life?”

“Yes, I do. I also wish to know if that person is still around, and who they are.”

“Melchior,” Greg said, remembering. “That’s what my mates said he was known as. Melchior…” He wracked his brain. “Fletcherson, that was it. Melchior Fletcherson.”

“Well remembered,” Mycroft said. “Although that name is not familiar to me, if he is still alive, I will track him down. In fact, I shall set Anthea on it today. If indeed he was an agent of Moran, alias Magnusson, ultimately, he did not succeed.”

“What _exactly_ happened to Magnusson, Mycroft? Where is he now?”

“Magnusson? Stripped of his Source, and imprisoned. Culverton Smith was sent as far away as possible. He is in a secure place in Australia, right now. He is under a geas, a physically and mentally binding spell, never to come near Magnusson again, nor is he allowed contact of any kind. Magsnusson is in prison; maximum security magical prison, HM Dartmoor, which has a fifty mile nullfield around it. He is in isolation, like all the magical criminals in there.”

“No threat to us then?”

“Unless he gets out, which would be highly unlikely.”

“Better make sure it doesn’t happen then. So...what happens after we attune? I’ve got to face the Council?”

“Yes, the Temple Conclave. What an affair that will be.” Mycroft actually sounded smug about it. “You are about to become a very influential person, Gregory. My Source is no ordinary Source. You will outrank most of the mages, some of whom I will warn you won’t like it. They’ll like it even less that you are a Commoner policeman. Sources are known for their ability to speak plainly and they can veto a mage’s work, as I have already told you. They will have to respect you above and beyond your station as a Detective Inspector. You must learn how to behave among them. Demand respect, Gregory. Never let them get away with insulting you. You are about to be initiated into a whole new world.” 

“Please don’t count your chickens before they’ve hatched, Myc. I’m not attuned to you yet...Besides, I feel like I haven’t earned it.”

“Earned it? Gregory, you do not need to earn it. However, you _will_ earn it, many times over. You will understand in time. Don’t let it worry you now. I shall introduce you to Anthea tomorrow. She is my assistant and capable substitute. You will like her, I’m sure. She will look after you, give you advice, and guidance. If in doubt, ask her for her advice if I am not available. Gregory,” Mycroft said, his voice dropping to a gentler tone. “I am certain that you will do fine, more than fine. Now,” he added, becoming brisk, “new clothes, you need something more suited to The Temple. You should have your own robes for formal events too.”

“My own robes?” Greg’s eyebrows rose. “Jesus, I feel like Ron Weasley…”

“Ron who?”

“Weasley, Mycroft...Have you never read Harry Potter?”

“Ah...the...um...you mean The Books That Shall Not Be Named?” Mycroft said, quoting the popular epithet that the magical community had applied to the stories.

“Yes, those,” Greg said. “Surely, even mages have read them, otherwise how would they know what they were banning?”

“Gregory, I did not get beyond the first one. They strike too painful a chord with me. A magical school, ordinary people treated like dirt, those from families not of a magical lineage treated like second class citizens, magical creatures treated like servants….No, Gregory, I did not read them. Our history is not a particularly nice one, and every mage knows that Ms Rowling wrote a damning indictment on the worst of our attitudes. I know she has always denied it, she has always cited that it was nothing more than a childrens’ book based on a few historical figures, but we know the reality. I aim to challenge those attitudes, and bring us into the 21st century, whether my colleagues like it or not. I have already talked to the new Head of the Magical Academy in London, and there will be changes made there and in the Academies across the country by the start of the new school year. I am having a conference with all the Heads of the Temple Colleges from Edinburgh down to Southampton in a few weeks time. Changes are to be made in the National Magical Curriculum, changes to reflect equality and diversity in line with the edicts from the European Court of Human Rights.” 

“Wow, you do nothing by halves. So...robes?”

“Yes. Nothing too extravagant, I do not aim for you to stick out like a sore thumb, but something elegant and more suited to your rank.”

“I wouldn’t have the first clue about fashion in robes.”

“If you have quite finished breakfast, I think we shall take the car to my tailor's and have something made up for you. Council is tomorrow, attunement this afternoon, and then…”

“This is a lot to take in…”

“Gregory, I am sure you will be fine.”

“Yeah, you keep saying that, but you’re not me. It’s just...it's a big change from NSY. Do they know where I am, by the way?”

“I informed them, don’t worry,” Mycroft reassured him. “Look, I know there will be a lot of changes for you, Gregory, but...for the better, I hope. You do...well...if you decide this isn’t for you…”

“Mycroft…” 

“No, Gregory, you should be absolutely sure. At least, you should understand what all this entails. In the long run, I am happy for you to return to NSY, but you should know it might be in a reduced role. As my Source, you will of course be helping me…”

“Helping you?”

“Yes. A Source is exactly that, a source of power, of light in the darkness, of… balance, equilibrium. My equilibrium. I...without you...I will not be half the Mage I intend to be.”

“Mycroft…”

“Yes?”

Greg took a breath. “You said a Source vetoes a mage’s work?”

“Sometimes, yes.”

“You’re saying that if we need to, we can, so…”

“What are you considering?”

“If I see this power going to your head...I _will_ stop you, you know. I mean...I’m not going to be your slave, am I?”

“Heaven forfend, Gregory. I never want you to feel that way. If you begin to doubt, then say so, talk to me, communicate your doubts. Withdraw the power…”

“I can do that?”

“At any time. A Source is powerful in their own right. We have a lot of work to do, and it will not be completely up to me. Good work though. The future of our Order rests in our hands, my dear. I hope I am up to the task.”

“You hope _you’re_ up to the task? What about me? I’m the one with no training.”

Mycroft smiled warmly, confidently. “I have faith in your natural abilities, Gregory. You’ll see.” 


	8. Day of Attunement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg gets fitted for robes, and finally he and Mycroft come together to attune.

Greg surveyed himself in the mirror and did not recognise the man staring back at him. They had made a visit to Mycroft’s tailor, Reuben Clayborn, on Savile Row. While the man had fussed around him and taken measurements and shown him fabric samples and eventually completed taking Greg’s order for formal robes, Mycroft had been right that even he couldn’t produce made-to-measure robes in twenty four hours, even with magical ability. However, the man had produced three sets of robes that he could adjust to fit in the time allowed. It would probably be tight for time, but it was doable. Mycroft rejected the dark red ones trimmed with silver as unsuitable for a Source, even if they were suitable—if ostentatious—for a high ranking Mage. The remaining sets were a dark purple twill trimmed with black, and a dark charcoal grey. Greg disappeared into the changing room with the small man in tow to help, leaving Mycroft adrift in the shop. He busied himself choosing shirts and trousers, and asked another assistant if they had a pair of brogues in Gregory’s size. 

When Reuben was finished with him, Greg found himself somberly dressed in long robes that fell almost to his feet. They were reassuringly heavy on his shoulders, a fine deep purple wool with subtle embroidery of wreathed oak leaves along the entire length of the black lapel panels. The wide black cuffs replicated the embroidery, and almost covered his hands. The whole ensemble was reminiscent of university robes, but were longer and simpler cut, sans the hood at the back. There was a wide flat shawl collar instead, bordered with a bicoloured cord ending in a complicated knot on the left lapel. Reuben had helped him set the robes on correctly, so they sat slightly back on his shoulders. The tailor then explained that the knot would be replaced with one that matched his rank and discipline, and would be coloured accordingly. The knot itself was mounted on what looked to Greg like a bit of fabric origami, a little fan of material, point down, revealing a dark royal-purple silk damask lining, a decadent detail in the otherwise sober clothing. The colour of the embroidery down the lapels matched the purple lining, and overall the effect was stunning. The workmanship on the embroidery was beautiful, occasional tiny acorns picked out in goldwork between the purple leaves. Greg did not feel worthy of the rich garment, but Mycroft’s expression when Reuben pulled the curtain back was priceless. 

Rarely had Mycroft Holmes found himself lost for words. Even rarer were the times he felt moved to tears. The sight of the man who was destined to be his Source dressed for a formal event was simply stunning. Mycroft was lost. He had no words for the vision that stood there before him. Greg spread his hands wide, and turned on the spot, showing off the effect. The robes were cut to flare slightly, an ostentatious movement but a dramatic one. Mycroft cleared his throat, and nodded. 

“They’ll do…” he said, but the sound choked off slightly. Gregory’s shoulders, already wide and impressive, looked even more imposing. He wasn’t as tall as Mycroft but he was still tall, at 5’11” he would easily dominate the room if he so chose. He was also solidly built, with very little additional fat on his frame, despite the softness of ensuing middle-age spread. His height meant he could carry a little excess weight without it being remotely noticeable. 

“A little wide on the shoulders, but nothing too visible,” Reuben was saying, patting the shoulders thoughtfully, “and a touch short, but I can let them out by an inch, which should be enough. They need the appropriate knot, of course, but that is the work of a few hours. I can set Jamie on it. He’s my best knot maker. May I know the Master’s discipline?”

“What did you mean by that?” Greg asked.

“He means whether you are Inspeaker or Wildspeaker…” Mycroft explained. “Reuben, this is rather unusual. I’ll need you to have Jamie plait all five.”

“All five? But…” Reuben was lost for words. 

“I am aware, it has never been done before. However, Gregory is proficient in all five disciplines. Including…” he paused for effect, “...Unravelling.”

Reuben exhaled. “We will be honoured,” he said softly, awed. “Never has a tailor been requested to produce a knot like that. You do, however, have a choice to make, sirs. Do you wish the colours plain, muted, or bright?”

“Um...can you show me the differences?” Greg asked.

“Certainly, sir.” The man pulled a sample book from under the counter and flipped the board pages until he reached the one for cordage. “These,” he said, pointing out the garish primary and secondary colours, “are the brights, and these,” his finger dropped to the slightly more somber colours, “are the plain, while these,” and his finger dropped to the darker shades, “are what we term muted. If you are an unraveller, sir, then that has always been black. It never changes.”

“Could I be a rogue and have a combination?” Greg enquired cheekily. 

“Gregory, please…” Mycroft admonished gently.

“There is no restriction, merely tradition,” Reuben said, “however, if I may suggest?”

“Go ahead. You’re the expert.”

“It is rather an honour for us to do this, sir. This is an absolute first in our two hundred year history. This is a braid and knot that will be recorded in the annals of our firm for perpetuity. Would sir be amenable to a royal blue for Patterning, the claret red for Far Travelling, the racing green representing Wild Speech, golden yellow for Inspeaking, and of course Jet Black for Unravelling?” 

“Yes, I think sir would, thank you.” 

“It will be our pleasure, sir. I can have them complete by tomorrow. When is your conclave?”

“Seven in the evening, with a formal dinner to follow.”

“Plenty of time then. You will be able to pick them up from two onwards, tomorrow afternoon.”

“Thank you, Reuben. You never let me down. Greg, would you try these shoes on please, I think they will match admirably…”

They left the shop with several bags containing shoes, shirts, a dark-purple silk tie, and a dark generic off-the-peg suit that would go unnoticed beneath the robes but was necessary to complete the image. It was still sharper and better quality than anything Greg possessed in his own wardrobe. Before they left Greg tried the grey robes and found them a little long on him, but Reuben assured him he would adjust them, and run up something similar for routine use and keep them simple. A member of the Temple never appeared there without his robes, whether Mage or Source, and everyday wear was essential. Every robe required the rank and discipline cord and knot, so it looked like Jamie would have his work cut out, quite literally, no pun intended. Robes could be discarded when working in the labs or the ‘spheres’, the rooms that were shielded and enclosed for magical work, like the one they would attune in. However, any other situation would entail the wearing of robes of some kind. It was, apparently, a very ingrained tradition. 

They spent an hour at the Turkish baths, in a private room, for Greg’s small cleansing ritual. The proprietors were used to it, and the rooms they had were magically shielded for the purpose. John met them there, and took time to examine Greg properly for any contraindications concerning the attunement, but found none. Once John had gone, Mycroft himself performed the rite, with the appropriate spells, and they had a rather relaxing hour at the hands of Dimitri and Konstantinos, known as Kostas. The man knew his stuff when it came to ironing out the knots of tension in Greg’s muscles. He hadn’t realised he was so tense. When they emerged from the place, Greg felt energised. 

They returned to Mycroft’s townhouse for dinner, but the impending attunement left Greg without much appetite, despite the cleansing rite. Mycroft insisted he not allow himself any chance of dizziness during the process and just about forced him to eat something. 

“So, we’re absolutely attuning today?” Greg huffed out a nervous breath.

“Yes. This afternoon. The room is booked for 3pm, an auspicious time.”

“Is it?”

“Anything with a three in it is considered lucky. Attunements and other ceremonies that require the Spheres are often booked at 3pm. 03:00 is also popular but not everyone wishes to stay up so late, or get up so early. It was lucky that Anthea managed to get one for us at that time.”

“I’ve no robes to wear now though.”

“Special circumstances,” Mycroft said with a smile. “You are not formally recognised yet, so there is no need to worry. When we are attuned, and we arrive at the event tomorrow night, then you will be acknowledged in your role, and of course, the robes will be essential from then on.”

“This is real, isn’t it?”

“Oh yes, Gregory, it is very real. Why? Are you regretting your choice?”

“You’ve asked me that before.”

Mycroft smiled sadly. “Several times, across the years.”

“I never regret my choice, as far as I remember, and I’m not about to start now.” 

The imposing front of the Mages’ Temple on Middle Temple Lane was impressive, and Greg had always felt that he did not belong. In the handful of times he had visited as a guest, he had felt unwanted, and rejected, despite being invited to attend. It was as if the building itself were trying to eject him, and he felt no different accompanying Mycroft. The man led him through the doors, nodding to the porter on duty as he went. Sherlock and John were waiting in the main entrance hall. 

“Brother dear,” Sherlock said, “are you ready?” 

“As I’ll ever be,” Mycroft replied, ushering them through to an inner court. He led the way to the rear of the building and into a room that muffled Greg’s ears as soon as he entered. “Sound proofed?” he asked.

“Sound and magic proof. Nothing gets in, similarly nothing gets out. There is a room behind this panel,” and Mycroft pushed at the wall, revealing a hidden door, “that we shall change in.” He led the way inside, leaving Sherlock and John behind them in the larger room. 

“Jesus, Mycroft…” The room was not large but it was equipped with lockers and shelves, a kitchenette with very mundane tea making facilities. A water heater was placed on the wall above a small work surface, a mug tree with six mismatched mugs, together with canisters for tea, coffee and sugar, were lined up behind the sink, and a microwave sat beneath the water heater. 

“Some of our staff are mundane,” Mycroft explained, “and even mages like a cup of tea after their work. While we perhaps might be able to heat water without a kettle it still expends energy to do so, therefore we tend to fall back upon the simpler methods.” 

“Makes sense.”

“Magic might be special, Gregory, but in all honesty, it should be accomplishing the things we cannot fashion by other means, otherwise what use is it? Chop chop now, we need to disrobe. Time is of the essence.”

Mycroft produced a light silk cloak for each of them, explaining that it would be fine to cover their dignity until the time came to be fully naked. “In truth, I thought it might make you feel more comfortable.” 

“Thanks, Myc. Thoughtful of you.” Greg had taken off his clothes slowly, hyper aware that Mycroft was doing the same only feet away. The man was gorgeous; freckled skin revealed bit by tantalising bit as the fabric armour was peeled away. The previous night he knew he’d had the excuse of being tired, but now...

“Mycroft?”

“Yes?” 

“Can I ask you something?” 

“Of course. Anything, Gregory.”

“You might regret that.”

Mycroft turned, eyebrow arching as he folded his shirt carefully. “What is bothering you?”

Greg tried not to let his eyes go south. “Just...well, I was thinking, do you have to abstain from sex before magic work?” Greg watched the man’s ears turn faintly pink. He turned away, back firmly presented to Mycroft. “You know, like some African tribes think it weakens a warrior before battle…”

“No, Gregory. I can assure you, it is not a practice that we have to abstain from at all. In fact, the Great Rite I mentioned utilises the act of sex to concentrate energy and enhance it. It is quite the most powerful effect we can produce.”

“So...would this not go better if we...you know... _did it_?”

“ _Did it?_ ” Mycroft parrotted. “As in...had sex, you mean?”

“Yeah…” Greg was aware that his voice had gone a bit hoarse. “I mean...should we have done it last night? I know attunement will bring us close, won’t it? Closer than sex, or marriage, you said. The Bond thing, that was just a formality, wasn’t it? A papertrail.”

“Gregory, this is...it is not necessary to the process…” Mycroft was aware of his voice growing a little strangled. “I know we shared a bed last night, and I anticipate, nay, hope, that we will do so in the future, but right now it will not...appreciably alter the outcome.”

“Mycroft...if I offered, would you take me up on it?”

“That...depends on the offer, of course.” Mycroft stoically kept his back to the man between him and the door. He closed his eyes. _Why is this so hard?_ Gregory was about to attune to him, about to come closer than anyone had ever come, and he was balking at being asked if he would have sex with the devastatingly handsome man who was standing naked behind him. 

“I’m offering, Mycroft. Do you want to make love, here, now, before we do this?”

“I…” Mycroft shut his mouth and closed his eyes. “If only you knew, if only you understood…”

“I do know, Mycroft. I understand, honestly. We were in a relationship, for many lifetimes, and I can’t remember much about it yet, but...there’s an echo. In my head. Something that makes me inexplicably fond of you.” He huffed a laugh and exhaled a gusty breath. “I want that, Mycroft, more than anything, but I want to do it right.” He stepped close, and Mycroft was aware of heat warming his back from Gregory’s skin, and then Greg enfolded the man in his arms from behind. For a moment, Mycroft froze, and then he leaned back, melting in Greg’s arms with a sigh. 

“We have no requirement to do this,” Mycroft said, “not for our attunement. We need speed, Gregory. For all I know this might not work the first time. We might need to work on it. We might have to come back later, or tomorrow. Or never.”

“John’s examination of me was fine, Myc. No underlying problems, nothing that might set me back. You have no earthly reason to worry. However, if we do nothing else, we should acclimatise, don’t you think?”

“Yes, at least I agree to this much.”

“Sure I can’t tempt you?” Greg grinned and mouthed along his shoulder. Mycroft huffed a small moan.

“You will be the death of me. Gregory, you wonderful man...there is neither time nor need. I assure you. Come, let’s...let’s get this done.” Unexpectedly, Mycroft leaned in for a kiss, a gentle pressure of lips, chaste and undemanding. It felt amazing but all too soon he was pulling away, and dragging Greg to the door. 

“I, Alexander Mycroft Aubry Holmes, am here with the intent to attune with you, Gregory Jonathan Lestrade, being of sound mind and body, on this the fifteenth of May, in the year 3842ME, 2020AD.” Mycroft gazed at his Source to be and nodded encouragingly.

“I, Gregory Johnathan Lestrade,” Greg repeated, “am here with the intent to attune with you, Alexander Mycroft Aubry Holmes, being of sound mind, and body, on this the fifteenth of May, in the year 3842ME, 2020AD.” They had handed their cloaks to their witnesses, and Greg felt somewhat exposed, standing completely naked in a cool room, with two clothed men standing beside them. His focus was drawn to Mycroft and what he was saying, making it feel a bit less awkward. 

“Our Bond will prove true,” Mycroft said, formally, regarding him with his grey blue eyes, their expression unexpectedly fond.

“Our Bond will prove true,” Greg repeated, wishing he felt more confident. 

“Our Bond is sacred under law.”

“Our Bond is sacred under law.”

“From this day forward, we will be as one.”

“From this day forward, we will be as one.”

“Witnessed this day the fifteenth of May,” came Sherlock’s voice, “in the year 3842ME, 2021AD, by Mage Sentinel William Sherlock Scott Holmes.” 

“And Doctor John Hamish Watson, Source to Mage Sentinel Sherlock Holmes,” John added, somberly. 

Mycroft’s hands lifted, one palm facing up, the other down. Greg mirrored him, so their palms were touching. Mycroft closed his eyes, aware of Sherlock standing close behind him, and John standing close to Greg. The air began to vibrate. Greg’s ears were filled with a low-level hum. A tingle swept up his legs from the floor. He felt his heart rate tick up a little, and he began to perspire. A warmth worked its way inside of him, made his palms tingle, and his body feel as if it were swelling with power. He had no idea what to do, other than to not fight the strange feeling, which was oddly familiar at the same time. He dared not make a sound, although he wanted to cough, and then to sneeze. Instead, he tried to parse the sensations, to work out which bits of him they were affecting. He felt the power fade, bit by bit, leaving behind it an odd sort of ache. 

Slowly Greg realised there was a gentle throbbing throughout his whole body. It was so soft it was hardly there, and he wondered if he were imagining it. He opened his eyes, and gasped. His vision was...different. The colours of the room they were in were serviceably drab, plain dark wood panelling, with dove-grey walls and dark green doors and framework. Now though… The wood boards beneath his feet were a startling chestnut with miriad lines of chocolate, umber, sienna, sepia, all running through it. The green wood was like peering at a forest, highlights of every colour of green mingling to form the whole. Greg looked beyond Mycroft to Sherlock, to find that the man’s blue eyes were focused on Greg. The aquamarine blue was sharply clear, only the accents to it—paler blue lines, darker turquoise—were now visible in his eyes. The skin on Mycroft’s shoulders was a pale blush pink, and freckled, except now every softly tan freckle was accented, finely detailed. The air was vibrating slightly, Greg decided, shifting his gaze to...further down. While he had the liberty to look, he allowed his eyes to travel to Mycroft’s groin, to be greeted by a soft but enticing vision, the cloud of auburn hair around his— _rather generous_ —cock, a pleasing sight to behold. Greg dragged his gaze back up to Mycroft’s face reluctantly, to see the man watching him. The colours in his grey blue eyes were like a birds feathers, vibrant and veined. Their hands were still connected, palm to palm. Greg knew that he was blushing, caught in the act, but he tried not to break eye contact, and smiled. Mycroft smiled back, albeit a small one.

The air had a definite hum now, low level, now thrumming through his bones. It wasn’t _uncomfortable,_ exactly, just a bit distracting. Greg dragged his focus back onto Mycroft’s face. He didn’t move. Kept his hands where they were, connected. Although he _knew_ with that sixth sense, that Mycroft was doing _something_. Sherlock seemed amused, and John was out of his line of sight, so he had no idea what was going on. _...attractive...this is...unusual…_ Greg frowned as the words floated through his mind, although they were not his, they sounded _like_ Mycroft, but not like. He focused on Mycroft’s face again. There was a _longing,_ a loneliness, a sharp feeling of raw grief flickered and disappeared, unalloyed joy for a similar space of time, pride, and overall, a feeling of...at first Greg couldn’t identify it, but then it hit him. It was apprehension, doubt, uncertainty. For a moment, the possibility that this seemingly confident man could feel like that took Greg by surprise, and he knew that the emotions were emanating from the man in front of him. Later, Greg would claim that it was reflex, a purely autonomous reaction, that had him projecting safety and respect and support back to Mycroft, not even sure it would work. The man’s eyes flew open, and Greg knew it had. Somehow, he had managed to project his feelings. 

He didn’t have time to contemplate it. Their eyes met, properly. Gaze for gaze, the two men stared at each other. For a moment, it felt to Greg as if he was falling into a depthless ocean, lost in the waves, and then he was surfacing, face to face with his twin. For a brief second, he was looking back at himself, like a mirror, but _different,_ as if he was seeing what Mycroft was seeing. Then he was back in his own head, looking at Mycroft with awe, respect, and fondness. He smiled, dopily, thoroughly smitten by the man. _This was...has anything happened?_ Greg was honestly not sure. The colours had settled again, gone back to their original hues, and the hum had disappeared. In fact, everything was normal. He was vaguely disappointed, but he wasn’t about to voice it. 

“Gregory?” Mycroft’s voice was hushed but carried easily through the room’s acoustics.

“Yeah?” he replied, his voice a little slurred. “Sorry...did it...I mean...was it successful?”

“You can’t tell?” Mycroft genuinely seemed nonplussed. “That was…”

“The easiest attunement I have ever witnessed,” Sherlock’s gentle voice cut across the conversation, pitched low in respect of the place. “In fact I would go so far as to say that was probably the only McKinley Transition I have witnessed.”

“What’s a McKinley Transition then?”

“It is one where the attunement happens with no side effects and no other...problems,” Mycroft offered. “As I believe I told you, attunement can often cause stresses on one’s body and mind. Ours…”

“Went perfectly, brother,” Sherlock said, respect in his voice. 

“Been a witness to many of these then?” Greg enquired. 

“My own, which was not without its problems, and two others. My sister’s, which was completely ill-advised, and my friend, Victor’s. That was _almost_ perfect but this…” Sherlock shook his head. “Synchronous,” he said. “You don’t feel nauseous, dizzy, weak?”

“Nope. Nothing at all like that.” 

“Well then, we shall leave you, brother.” Sherlock handed over the cloak his brother had worn. “We’ll meet you outside, and escort you home, I think.” Mycroft wrapped the cloak around himself as if trying to shield himself again. John nudged Greg and handed over the other cloak. Greg smiled gratefully as he settled it around himself, only then realising how chilly he was. He shivered. 

“I dunno about anyone else but I could do with a drink, and possibly food. I’m suddenly famished.” 

“Probably because you didn’t eat much at lunchtime.” _stupid man…_

“Oi, I am not stupid,” Greg said with a grin. 

“Did you just…?”

Greg grinned. “Yeah, caught you thinking that.”

Mycroft regarded him with a fondly exasperated smile. “Oh, Bugger,” he said, vexed. “What _have_ I let myself in for?” 


	9. Oh, What a Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An accord is reached, memories surface, and Greg decides their bond need ratifying in the physical sense, to which Mycroft agrees. Training begins for Conclave, and Greg meets Anthea at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lads have gotten together at last and the rating reflects the intimate nature of their bonding.

“So...what now?” Greg ventured to ask once they were in the car going home.

“Now, you and I need to work on your skills. There is more to Disciplines than simply possessing them. You should be able to control them, to summon or switch them off at will. After all, with your unravelling permanently switched on, no spell can touch you, not even a beneficial one. Say you got injured and required a healing spell, for instance.”

“Can see how that might not be good. So, is it difficult?”

“Taxing, perhaps, but not difficult.”

“So...anything else planned for today?”

“I thought it better that we didn’t plan anything more, in case the attunement went awry. Besides, I had expected it to leave you exhausted even if it went well, although, you do not seem to be experiencing any discomfort.”

“That’s probably because I’m not.”

“Dinner then?”

“Dinner, yes.”

They dropped Sherlock and John back at Baker Street and continued on to Mycroft’s townhouse. The heat of the day assailed them when they stepped out of the car, and Mycroft sighed, robes swirling around him. He was wearing formal pinstripe black, with intricate silver characters embroidered along cuff and hem. Inside, the cooler temperature was welcome, and Greg watched as Mycroft peeled off his formal layer of work clothing.

“Ah, that’s better,” he sighed, gratefully. “Drinks on the terrace?” he asked with a smile. 

Greg nodded. “Sounds good. You actually have a terrace?”

“Most certainly I do. Pasta and salad alright?”

“Mm, great.”

After Mycroft unlocked the patio door, Greg wandered out onto the terrace behind the house which let out onto a secluded garden area bordered by trees. The breeze here was fresher, the garden mostly in evening shadow. Greg breathed deep and began to relax. An easy attunement had followed their bonding. Greg wondered at his luck.

“Gregory?” Mycroft wandered out to join him, bearing two glasses of a deep red wine. He handed one over with a gentle smile. “I thought a toast?”

“What to?”

“Us, perhaps? Our union?” 

Greg lifted his glass and gently clinked it against Mycroft’s. “To the future,” he said simply. 

“The future,” Mycroft echoed. 

“May it gift us health, wealth, and a long and happy life together,” Greg added, taking a mouthful. It tasted glorious. He wondered if Mycroft would taste as good. 

Mycroft watched Greg swallow the wine, watched the man’s throat moving, saw the appreciative look in his eyes, the way his fingers gripped the glass. Every movement was catalogued, filed away in his mind palace, to bring out later when he knew he would be alone. He had no expectations that Greg would fall in love with him all over again. He hoped, but there was no guarantee that Greg would find a place in his heart for Mycroft. He might find someone else, he might determine this was all too much. There could be any number of reasons why this might not work. Mycroft was not an idealist, nor was he a romantic. However… He could hope. 

Greg firmly committed the details of that evening to his memory. Mycroft threw together pasta and chorizo, seemingly with no effort, and produced an accompanying leafy salad with a sweet raspberry vinegar dressing that Gordon Ramsay would have been proud of. Dessert was a decadent strawberry ice cream with fresh strawberries and macaron. They sat at a white-painted cast-iron table on the terrace to eat, seated on matching chairs, drinking more of the flavoursome wine and conversing quietly about anything and everything with easy camaraderie. The air was redolent with blossom and the scent of early roses. Greg rolled his shirt sleeves up and opened his collar, revelling in the freshness of the evening. Dinner was finished and dusk had settled before Mycroft stirred to collect plates and glasses and retire inside. 

“We’d better get to bed soon,” Mycroft said, staring into the gathering dark. Shadows were lengthening under the trees and the air was growing cooler. He shivered. “Conclave tomorrow. We have tried to keep your presence quiet for now, but you know how things go. The rumour mill has probably started.”

Greg chuckled, and drained his glass. “The grapevine is always awake,” he said. “Gossip never sleeps.” 

“Yes, well, your arrival will be enough of a disruption. I hope you won’t feel… intimidated, or overwhelmed. There is nothing at all that anybody can do to separate us now. We are bonded, and attuned. I am Magus Sentinel Prime of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland. If anyone legitimately wants to challenge us though, then they have every right to do so. While we are not a democracy, mages do have rights within the community. As the registrar said, our union has been somewhat hasty, and kept rather quiet.”

“I understand. I’ll be ready for a challenge then.”

“Definitely. You should be ready for something else too. They may demand that you be submitted to a test, to prove the veracity of your claim to being my Source.”

“Can they do that? I mean, questioning my veracity? You asked me, not the other way around. I agreed. End of.”

“I know that, and so does Sherlock, and John. Our Bond was ratified. However, politically speaking…”

“Politically speaking, it makes sense for me to submit, doesn’t it?”

“Only if you are completely willing.”

“Mycroft, you need these people on side. They won’t be if I’m not agreeable and amenable. Isn’t that so?”

“You should be gracious, but not a pushover. You need to be seen to occupy the moral high ground here. Always demand respect, Gregory. Do not forget that.”

“I understand. Let’s see what happens, aye?”

“Yes. Yes indeed.” Mycroft wandered back inside, and Greg trailed after him, following him into the kitchen. Mycroft washed his glass out, and placed the plates into the dishwasher, then turned to find Greg standing rather close. The man reached to place his own crockery in the washer, and then wrapped gentle fingers around Mycroft’s bicep. 

“Mycroft, I wonder. Could we, perhaps, try something?”

“Something….?”

“Yeah, like...this, maybe?” Greg leaned forward and pressed his lips to Mycroft’s, a gentle pressure, testing the water. Mycroft pressed back, delighting in the warmth and softness of Gregory’s mouth. When they pulled back, Greg smiled tentatively. “Sorry, I…” he sighed. “I figured we should move this forward a bit.” 

“I am not complaining, Gregory,” Mycroft murmured. “I had no hopes that this would happen, you know. After all, you are perhaps not the same person this time around. You might not have…”

“Not have what? Not have been attracted to you? Not have liked you, even?”

“Anything, Gregory. How could I know?”

“Well, if you’re up for it, I’d rather like to explore the possibilities.”

“Possibilities?”

“Yeah, possibilities. With you. Tonight. How would you feel about that?”

Mycroft’s heart leapt, but he tried to keep his reaction from his face. “I would find that...acceptable, Greg.” 

“You called me Greg. Not Gregory?” 

“You seem to prefer Greg, although your name is perfectly distinguished and more than suitable for the Source to the Magus Prime. I prefer using it.”

“Pompous twat,” Greg muttered, laughing. “What’s in a name, eh?”

“Come to bed, Gregory, and you will hear it on my lips again.”

Greg paused. “Is it me, or do I remember you shouting my name from the top of a stone tower? At midnight, with the stars above us? Some conjunction or other?”

Mycroft smiled. “I remember. It was definitely a _conjunction_ , although the stars had little to do with it as I recall, and you were...quite magnificent.”

“Was I? You’ll maybe have to remind me.” 

“Come,” Mycroft said, softly, grasping Greg’s hand and drawing him along, leading him upstairs. The bedroom was stuffy, and Mycroft threw open one of the windows, letting the evening breeze in, the muslin curtains billowing softly into the room. 

Greg began to unfasten his shirt buttons, then slowed as he realised Mycroft was watching, riveted. He unfastened each one carefully, reverently, deliberately baring his chest to Mycroft’s gaze. _Almost,_ Mycroft thought, _as though he were a willing sacrifice…_ Mycroft’s heart rate ticked up. Butterflies seemed to have taken up residence in his stomach.

“I figure,” Greg said into the quiet, “that you and I need this. We’re bonded, and we’ve attuned, and you told me you don’t need to abstain, so...I was thinking, maybe we need to bond this way as well. D’you agree?”

“I certainly don’t object,” Mycroft said, breathlessly, never taking his eyes off Greg, and all the while his own hands were making short work of his own shirt buttons. 

“Good, because the things I want to do to you…” Greg inhaled, a soft breath of anticipation. 

Mycroft stepped closer and slipped his hands under Greg’s open shirt front, skimming upward so he slid the garment off the man’s shoulders. “You looked...stunning today. I was quite taken aback. In robes, Gregory, there is no one to compare. You’ll knock their socks off tomorrow.” 

“Right now, you’re the only one whose socks I want to knock off.”

“Speaking of socks,” Mycroft said, reaching to divest himself of the rest of his clothes. Greg followed, shedding his trousers and socks, kicking his boxers somewhere across the room. He drank in the sight of the naked man in front of him, freckled skin enticing his eyes to roam where he wanted his hands to follow.

“Can I touch?” He asked, reaching tentatively out to caress the freckles.

“Be my guest,” Mycroft murmured, smiling as his tongue flicked out to lick his lips. Greg watched it, eyes darkening. Suddenly he was in Mycroft’s arms, solid body hard and hot under Mycroft’s palms. Greg’s hands were all over him, roaming, teasing, mapping the contours of his body, the rise of hip and ridge of rib, the curve of shoulder and arse. He walked Mycroft backward to the bed and then wasted no time climbing onto it, bringing Mycroft with him, pulling the man on top of him, skin to skin. The scratch of stubble and prickle of chest hair only served to inflame already heightened senses. They kissed for what seemed like hours, licking and lapping and nipping. Greg suckled Mycroft’s bottom lip between his teeth, nibbling playfully, drinking in Mycroft’s gasping response. Mycroft’s tongue roamed along Greg’s neck, pressing kisses in the sensitive spots behind his ear, and down his neck, feasting on Greg’s deep moans and softer cries. Hands under Mycroft’s arse cheeks, cupping and squeezing, Greg pulled him closer, aligning their cocks as they frotted and gasped into each other's mouths. It was hot and hard and fast, almost frantic, and it wasn’t long before Mycroft was gasping a warning and spilling over Greg’s stomach, the feeling of heat sending Greg dizzily over the edge himself. 

They lay together afterward in the wreckage of the bedsheets, pillows askew, limbs lax and bodies sated, tangled together in a blissed-out mess. Greg blinked sleepily at Mycroft and grinned at the mess he’d made of the normally put-together man currently lying in his arms. 

“That,” he said, “was amazing. Sorry it didn’t last very long...”

Mycroft swallowed, trying to lubricate his suddenly dry throat. “I concur,” he managed. “Matters not how long it lasted. You are... _magnificent_ in bed, Gregory. I am gratified to note that some things have not changed.”

A chuckle reached his ears and Greg rolled onto his side, which was followed by a low regretful groan. “Oh, I’m not as young as I was. I think I might suffer for this in the morning…”

“Sacrifices must be made.” Greg laughed at that, drawing an amused smile from his bed partner. They lay there in the dark, just breathing, quiet in each other’s company. Greg reached to find Mycroft’s hand and twined their fingers together. 

“I’ve missed you,” Greg said, into the stillness. He felt Mycroft’s fingers tighten in his. 

“You have no idea,” Mycroft admitted.

“Well, we’re together now. I’m sorry we missed so much.”

“Gregory, when we are at Conclave tomorrow, I want you to know, you have every right to seek reparation from that individual who wronged you. We have been too long apart. I know I uttered fire and brimstone and threatened revenge but you are as wronged as I. You have every right to seek justice.”

“Yeah, well, I’ll think about it. It’s a long time ago. He might even be dead by now, Myc.”

“Mages and Cunning Folk tend to live longer than those without magic, do not forget. There is every chance he is still in the land of the living. I set Anthea on it yesterday, to see if he could be traced, including accessing the records from your old school.” 

“Guess we’ll have to see if anything comes of it then. You sure it’s not overloading her to do that as well as her usual duties?”

Mycroft was pleased to note Greg’s protective nature manifesting in his concern. “She has not been working too hard of late. I have only just stepped into the position, after all, so there is no need to worry on her account. I do make sure not to abuse her good nature.” 

“Good. I guess we should sleep then. Busy day tomorrow?”

“I think we should remake this sorry excuse for a bed before we do anything else, and then we should at least wash, if not shower. Then we can sleep.”

“Okay, dad…” Mycroft swatted him none too playfully on his tantalisingly bare arse, which elicited a satisfying yelp. 

“You deserved that,” Mycroft admonished, unable to help smiling broadly. “ _Dad_ indeed. Tomorrow, when we have breakfasted, we will begin your formal training. I will go through what is expected of you at Conclave, and what you can expect from it. Don’t worry, I shall make sure you know what to do. It will be expected that you and I will remain close anyway, so just don’t stray far from me.” 

“Your tailor referred to you as Your Eminence this morning. Is that common?”

“My formal title is His Eminence, Mycroft Holmes, Magus Sentinel Prime of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland.” 

“Wow, you’re almost Royalty then?”

“Almost? Effectively I _am_ royalty, which makes you royalty as well, don’t forget. You are not a second class citizen, Gregory. Far from it. Deference and respect should be yours at all times.” 

“So what do they call me then?”

Mycroft smiled again. “As my Source, your formal title is His Grace, Gregory Lestrade, Source Pursuivant of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland.”

“Christ,” Greg muttered, somewhat unsettled. “Do I get that on a business card?”

Mycroft laughed again, realising that he was prone to laugh more often when he was around Greg. It felt familiar and good in many ways. “Often you will be referred to in the same breath as myself, which ties us together for the benefit of visiting dignitaries. Your business card should perhaps say His Grace, Gregory Lestrade, Source Pursuivant to His Eminence, Mycroft Holmes, Magus Sentinel Prime of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland.”

“Bloody Hell, Mycroft, that’s a mouthful and no mistake.” Greg was thoughtful for a moment. “I know one thing though.”

“And what would that be?”

“Sounds a hell of a lot more posh than Detective Inspector, doesn’t it?”

**0000000**

Anthea was dispatched to pick up Greg’s robes at two that afternoon. The morning had been spent in lessons. They had spent two hours on protocol, although it wasn’t complicated, as far as Greg was concerned. They practiced bowing, although there wasn’t much more to it than an inclination on one’s head. It was a standard response from someone of his rank, no matter who the person was that he was greeting. Shaking hands was reserved for anybody thought of as a friend, and bestowed favour or award on the person being greeted. Otherwise it wasn’t required to shake everyone’s hand. He had to keep his shoulders straight and bow his head, not from the waist. 

“Remember you are allowed to smile,” Mycroft reminded him. “This is the formal Conclave to begin a new Council Term, but you are a human being, Gregory. Don’t feel that you have to glower at everyone.”

Greg chuckled. “How else am I going to intimidate them? I’m His Grace, the Source Pursuivant. I’m honour bound to glower with a name like that. My Chief Super would wet himself for a title like mine.”

“Child,” Mycroft muttered. “Seriously, Gregory, just be yourself. You are personable, friendly, approachable. In a way, my polar opposite. It behoves you to act as though you were in your former job, as liaison if you like. I’ll warrant you will be the one people will feel comfortable speaking to, rather than me.”

“Aw, not when they get to know you. They’ll find out you’re really a big softy…”

“God forbid,” Mycroft uttered, scandalised. “I make it my life’s work not to be considered soft and I'll thank you to remember that. Dear God, Gregory, you are threatening the very fabric of the magical world. Mycroft Holmes is not _a big softy_ , thank you very much. It is essential that I maintain my Iceman image or chaos will ensue. Stop laughing. I swear you are incorrigible.”

“Can’t let you rule with fear, love. That wouldn’t be right.”

“I do not intend to rule with fear, but I cannot allow anybody to take advantage. I am as the PM is to his cabinet. Actually, I command more respect than he does, but that is by-the-by. I intend to guide by example, and rule by fairness. Does that meet with your approval?”

“Yes, love, it does. So what else do I need to know?”

Greg learned he would have to walk one pace behind and to the right of Mycroft as they entered or exited the Hall. If he left before Mycroft he should face the Magus and bow before leaving, although he had no reason to request permission. Mycroft reassured him that should he require anything during the meeting, they had Stewards who would attend them. All Greg had to do was catch someone’s eye and they would bring him whatever he wanted. He would sit at Mycroft’s right hand at the high table, and in council there was a seat for him next to the Magus Prime’s throne, a small step down and to the right. 

“Dinner tonight will be relatively formal,” Mycroft rold him, “although we will not be adhering to strict ceremony.” People would be free to sit wherever they wanted to. However, invitations had been sent to those Mycroft wanted to see on High Table with his party. An invite to the high table was a coveted goal, and people had been known to vy for a mage’s favour for the honour.

“Anybody I know being invited to our table tonight?”

“Sherlock and John of course. I need to make sure people see that my brother and I are in accord. I have invited six people tonight, not including my brother and his source. Two are sourceless, and the others are similar Mage/Source couples. Irene Adler and her Source, Kate Madigan, have always been powerful. Adler is very...forceful, in her way, but she and Sherlock have always been unlikely friends. He helped her out of a tight spot once and she has never forgotten. Apparently saved her from death, although he has never divulged how. She pays her debts, it seems, and she has a long memory. Madigan is a reasonably powerful source but she is an Inspeaker only.”

“Anyone else?”

“Tobias Gregson, and his Source, Amy Heath. Gregson is a bit of an adventurer, and his Source is a Wildspeaker. They spend a lot of their time in magical wildlife rescue. I’ll warn you, they usually bring their pets with them.”

“Pets?”

“You’ll see.” 

“The others are rising stars and I am interested to meet them. The two mages who are without sources both have interests in the environment and I want to put forward a suggestion you might be interested in.”

“Sounds fun. So...when do we get ready?”

“Not until Anthea returns with your robes. We need some lunch, and then…”

“Then?”

“Then we begin your training in the use of your disciplines. I also want to suggest you train with John and Kate. They can show you effective use and control of your talents better than I. I am not a source, and they have had the requisite training in Mage Academy, something you missed, and frankly are somewhat too old for. I cannot imagine you attending Magical Academy as a mature student...Although, if you really wanted to, I suppose there is nothing stopping you. The new Dean of the Oxford School will be there tonight. If you wished, I am certain they would look favourably on your attendance.” 

“Me, go back to college?” Greg pondered the possibility, wondering. “I always imagined being an Oxford or Cambridge graduate. Never got the chance though. Too expensive.” 

“Well, money is no object now. Besides, for the source of the Magus Prime, I expect every Magical Academy would be vying with each other for the privilege.” 

“Mycroft, I am going to have to behave very correctly in public now, aren’t I? I mean, no benders or clubbing or anything that the gossip rags would latch onto…”

Mycroft had fixed him with a curious look. “Gregory, I cannot imagine that you would be going clubbing or a... _bender,_ at your age. Besides, the gutter press tend to stay out of mage affairs.”

“Yes, but you’ve got the Artificer, haven’t you. Even the Guardian has a magical supplement. There’s Occult Life Magazine, which loves the goss. I read Mystic Chronicle once. Never again, it’s worse than Sunday Sport.”

“Put like that, I see your point. Just exercise regular caution, Gregory. Stay away from strange people trying to sell you charms. Don’t get drunk in public, and don’t strike up a conversation with anyone you do not know. If in doubt, obfuscate.”

“Pardon?”

“Obfuscate. Hide. In plain sight. I can see you need to learn to use charms. Charms are…”

“I do know what they are. I thought they were illegal?”

“Some are, but some...Let’s say they are for emergencies. Obfuscation charms are restricted, because they make people unsee you.”

“Yeah, I came up against a thief using one once. Inherited it in a load of his gran’s costume jewellery. He was using it to get into banks and make off with thousands. Petty theft though, really. He wasn’t intelligent enough to use it for anything big. He ended up dead though, because someone knew what he was doing and nicked it. Passed that one to Sherlock. Turned out it was a non-magical gang. Sherlock located them, cancelled the charm’s effects, then turned them over to us. Looks on their faces when they realised we could see them.”

“A job well done. However, you, as my source, will be allowed to carry one. Much like carrying a firearm really. Sign it out, carry it for emergencies, and use wisely.” 

Anthea arrived at two thirty bearing the carrier with Greg’s robes inside. Mycroft was waiting for her at the door, and ushered her inside. He greeted her with a very uncharacteristic hug and took the robes from her arms, draping them across a sofa.

“Gregory, meet Athea Mallory, my capable PA and long time associate. Anthea, this is Gregory, my source, my bonded partner and…”

“His boyfriend,” Greg said with his usual charming grin. “Nice to meet you, Ms Mallory.”

“Oh, goodness. Anthea, please. This idiot hasn’t called me by my full name for years. I don’t expect you to either. Nice to meet you too, Gregory.”

“Greg, please. This _idiot,_ as you say, always uses my full name. I prefer Greg, honestly.” 

“Greg,” she said. “So, how did he persuade you to put up with him? Did he charm you?” She was grinning as she spoke, and Mycroft elbowed her gently and affectionately.

“Do you mind? He came of his own free will, a bit like a needy puppy.”

“Oi, do _you_ mind? You asked me, remember?” 

Anthea watched the relaxed good-natured bickering and smiled, happily. Finally it seemed that her boss had found his soulmate again. “So, gentlemen, I am now officially PA to both of you. I dare say you will be attending plenty of events across the course of the next twelve months. Your diary will be packed, and we will have to factor in your training, Greg. Mycroft emailed me about his concerns last night. I’m going to suggest you arrange to study remotely, at least in part. Practice makes perfect, so physical lessons will need to be arranged. I’m in charge of arranging your schedules, and I sort out your itineraries, including transport, hotels, meals, for any and all events you will be attending. I also schedule your day to day diaries, so you know where you are at any given time. It’s regimented to some degree but it works that way. Don’t let it put you off, Greg. Rescheduling, time off, holidays, you speak to me and I will move heaven and earth to sort it for you.”

“You’re some kind of superwoman?” Greg asked, in awe of her already.

She smiled. “I am your PR person as well, so I’m here to reference if you are unsure as to how to act or what to say. Don’t know how to address the Fae Queen of Fiji, I’m your woman. No idea how to dress in order to meet the PM, ask me. Can't find a tie to match, I will go shopping with you if you want another opinion, or particularly a female perspective. I can go shopping _for_ you, if you need me to. I am your fount of information and what I don’t know, I find out, rapidly, securely and discreetly. If you find yourself stuck somewhere and you need a quick exit, phone me. If you feel ill, call me. Anything at all, Greg. I am handsomely paid and my organisational skills are at ninja level.” 

Greg liked her enormously already. He sighed. “Looks like Sherlock was right then.”

“How so, my dear?”

“I am not going to be able to return to work, am I?”

Sadly, Mycroft nodded. “I think, under the circumstances, it might be best.”

“Perhaps, once this initial conclave is over...I would like to return to work for a short while, tie up loose ends, say goodbye to people, that kind of thing…”

“I am sure that could be arranged,” Mycroft said kindly. “Perhaps, you could retain your Liaison position, but with my office, instead of the police. They could appoint someone in your place, and you could arrange a weekly or monthly catch up with them, then you could still have an attachment to the place.”

“That would be good. I could still advise…”

“That sounds like a plan,” Anthea agreed. “A good use of your skills, and a necessary connection, plus it will relieve Mycroft to carry on with his duties. Perfect. I shall consult with the relevant authorities immediately.” 

“One condition. I want to return to work on a griffon, it’ll freak my Sergeant out royally.” 

“And here I was under the impression that you were not a cruel man, Gregory.”


	10. Day of Enlightenment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg has learned a few new skills, but while readying himself for the Conclave, he is assailed by doubts. However, an 11th hour gift makes Greg realise where his duty lies.

They took a few precious peaceful moments to gather themselves before getting ready for the evening. Anthea had joined them for a calming High Tea and they were all seated around the dining table, the strains of Chopin piano music wafting through hidden speakers. Greg had spent an intensive few hours after lunch practicing shielding, blocking Mycroft’s attempt to penetrate the barriers around his mind. It came naturally to him, which relieved Mycroft, despite initial hiccups of Greg getting his head around what to do. He was really very strong, although he lacked confidence. 

“Stop overthinking,” Mycroft had told him. “This is essentially nothing more than your willpower at work. Strong will, strong barrier. You have discipline, so use it.” 

Switching his abilities on and off proved a greater challenge, but it became easier as he practiced. “It will become easier,” Mycroft assured him. “You have most probably been doing it without realising, and like any skill, it is merely a case of practice makes perfect. The more you do this, the better it will be. John can teach you more, but for now, let me shield you when we are in public. Simply allow me to cover your mind with mine, you will be quite safe. If you feel any unwanted challenge, simply say ‘no’. Barriering is only really useful when someone pushes the issue, or tries to make you do something against your will. Otherwise it is not required all the time. I very much doubt that will occur tonight. However, I shall be there to help you.”

“About what I mentioned earlier,” Greg said, taking a fortifying gulp of tea.

“About what?” Mycroft prompted, glancing curiously across the table at his Bonded.

“Using your griffon taxi.” Anthea snorted inelegantly into her salmon and cucumber sandwich and Mycroft paused in drinking his tea to fix Greg with another of his _looks._

“What?” Greg said, puzzled.

“Griffon _taxi_?” Anthea smirked.

“Well, what else do you call it? You can’t exactly say ‘Hang on, dear, I’m just going to grab a griffon and I’ll be with you in half an hour’, can you?” 

“The Griffon is called Bentley, and he is _not_ a taxi,” Mycroft explained. “If you wish to use him, you need to politely request it, and he may agree, or not, as the case may be.”

“Pardon? You mean…”

“Yes, Gregory, Bentley is sentient, and he is not at anybody’s beck and call.”

“Wow. I have a lot to learn.”

“Perhaps. I should introduce you anyway. I have already made his acquaintance. He is quite the delight, his sense of humour is dry and he is, shall we say, wittily observant. He detested Magnusson but there was little he could do about refusing the Magus Prime. He has little else to do to qualify for his stipend, but…”

“Stipend? You mean, Bentley is an employee?”

“He is indeed. He is Guardian of the British Isles, if you want his proper title.” 

“Christ, who doesn’t have a fancy title here?” Anthea stayed suspiciously quiet. Greg glanced at her. “Go on, what’s yours?”

“The Right Honourable Anthea, Lady Mallory-Trevellyan, Countess of Hove,” she said. “PA to His Eminence, Mycroft Holmes, etc., etc.” She waved a vague hand in the air and snagged a bun as she did so. “And no, I am not magical.”

“Wow.” Greg gulped his tea. “Anybody else I need to know about, or is that all for now?”

“I think that’s quite enough to be going on with,” Mycroft said, amused. 

Greg harrumphed and subsided, piling his scone with jam and cream and indulging in the sweetness to take his mind off his nerves.

**0000000**

Later that evening, Greg found himself sitting on his bed, half-dressed, his shirt hanging open, hands braced on his knees. He wasn’t ready. _For any of it,_ he thought, his eyes falling on the robes hanging on the back of his door. 

_What am I doing?_

It felt as if life had taken him by the scruff of his neck and shaken him hard. He was aware that he felt both emotionally and physically battered. _Suddenly I’m the most powerful Source anybody’s ever seen, but I can’t protect myself and I don’t know the extent of my skills?_ His eyes slid closed. A deep frown furrowed his brow. He balled his hands into fists. _This is...the most foolish, stupid, idiotic, fucking mess I’ve ever got myself into, and I don’t know what to do about it. I can’t refuse Mycroft now, I just can’t. We’ve known each other before, we loved each other, and I hoped...I really hoped we’d fall in love again, but...I don’t know…_ He tipped his head back and stared at the ceiling. _What fucking use am I going to be?_

“Where on earth is he?” Mycroft muttered, checking his watch for the umpteenth time. He was concerned that Greg had not yet come down, although they all went upstairs to get ready after tea at the same time. Greg had seemed a little quiet, but he had not voiced any concerns. 

“He’ll be fine, Mycroft.” Anthea sat primly on the edge of the sofa, her concentration on her mobile. She stopped texting and glanced up, watching her employer and friend pace the floor. “Mycroft?” There was no response from the worried man who seemed to be watching the landing as though he could hasten Greg’s appearance by thought alone. “Mycroft!” The man stopped and glared at her. It was better than the pacing. “Sit down, and relax. We have plenty of time. Give him a chance. If he’s not down in ten minutes, then _I’ll_ go up. Now, _sit down_.” Her voice brooked no argument, so Mycroft perched on the edge of a chair, knee bouncing with nervous energy. He closed his eyes, and willed himself to relax, mind falling into his memories.

_Thunder rumbled in the distance, a summer storm rolling around the downland. Rain threatened but the oppressive heat was overriding everything. He was looking up at a tower, on which perched a magnificent griffon. Standing on the tower beside the creature was Gregory, his friend and guardian, leaning companionably against the grey plumage. He raised a hand, waving to get the handsome man's attention. Mycroft knew he wasn't yet properly into manhood yet, but lately feelings were stirring in his breast when he looked upon the older man. He was sure he had a crush on Gregory, considering the care with which the man always treated him, the respect and consideration he bestowed upon him. Greg was a good man, but Mycroft found it strangely unsettling to be close to him._

Greg didn’t know how long he sat on the edge of the bed, lost in his thoughts, mired in uncertainty. Tea had been fine, and their conversation had flowed. Anthea was as witty and erudite as Mycroft and he could see why they worked well together. Yet, here he was now mired in doubt. He closed his eyes, and fell into some kind of memory...

_He was standing on a tower top, looking out into the distance, his hand buried in the neck feathers of a large griffon. Skydancer was smaller than Greycrest, but he was fast, and he was very aloof for his kind. Greycrest had been affectionate, whereas Skydancer was more cat-like, indifferent to affection unless he wanted it. Nevertheless he was still a good companion; a quiet presence, non-judgemental, calming._

_Looking down to the courtyard below, Greg spied a youth of extraordinary beauty, a mop of red hair on his head, a narrow-featured face with full lips, blue eyes that assessed the world around him with a fleam-sharp mind behind them._

_“Gregory?” The call was strident in its eagerness, carrying on the still air despite the distance. Greg gazed down to see the red-headed youth gazing up at him, the sun catching his flaming hair and turning it to fire. Gregory raised a hand and waved. This time the boy was a dozen years Greg’s junior, and Greg was waiting, patiently, for the youth to become a man. It was his turn to wait this time around. Often Maecraeft—or Mycroft, as he went by now—was the elder, patiently waiting for Gregory to catch up, to become aware of their bond. A dozen lifetimes, and they were still a pair, for some reason unbeknownst to anyone but the Fates. Mycroft, the intelligent one, the Mage, the Spellmaster, and Gregory the ever-faithful warrior, the Hound, the Guardian. They had saved each other countless times, faced countless versions of their enemy, were reborn time and time again, the eternal triumvirate of love, faith, and magic that locked them into the eternal cycle of birth, life, and death._

_It was funny how things always came in threes; the law of Threefold Return, the Fates, the Norns, the Muses, Maiden-Mother-Crone, Father-Son-Holy Spirit, even the heads on poor old Cerberus. Love, faith, and magic. He thought about the triumvirate of Mage, Guardian, and Enemy. Locked in an eternal struggle. Despite winning the day, despite defeating their enemy, often one of them ended up mortally wounded as well, and it felt mightily unfair. Most often it was him. Sometimes Gregory was angry about it, when it exhausted him, when he was forced to leave his beloved yet again. "When will it be done?" he remembered demanding, angrily, the last time around. When will it be done, indeed? Maybe never? Maybe the next time will be the last. He always lived in hope that one day, it would be over and done. One bright day the endless cycle would reach its end, and they could both live out the rest of their days together, and then find rest, together, in the Summer Lands, for eternity. When was another matter._

_For now, at least, Gregory dons the armour, takes up the sword, and stands firm with his Mage at his side to face whatever this life throws at them. It is his lot. His Fate. It is what he does, and he knows he is good at it. Always the fighter, never the Mage. The protector, the warrior, the willing sacrifice._

Greg pushed up with his hands, straightening his back. He looked again at his robes hanging on the door. Taking a steadying breath, he exhaled, slowly. _Always the warrior._ Mycroft’s words echoed in his head. Standing resolutely, he went to the door, and reached to lift down the heavy garment. _Ah well._ He wrestled the garment off it’s hanger, and laid it on the bed. The new knot with its plaited cord sat on the left shoulder, bright against the matt black satin of the collar. Beneath the robes lay the purple damask waistcoat, and...there was a bulge in the pocket of the waistcoat. Greg frowned, wondering. He reached in to find something cold and hard, metallic. He withdrew a gold pocket watch. Curious, he flipped it open, seeing the inscription on the inside of the lid. 

_To Gregory,_

_All my love, devotion, and adoration,_

_always, in all ways, now and for evermore,_

_From your heart’s ease and your soul’s harbour,_

_Mycroft_

The words took his breath, turned his legs a bit shaky. He sat down on the bed again, poleaxed by the sentiment. The watch glinted in the light, and something struck him as odd. He looked back at the lid on which the inscription was engraved. On closer examination, the lid seemed to have another layer separate from the one the inscription had been engraved on. Carefully, Greg opened it out and saw that there was another inscription on the inside, engraved in a concentric circle. It took a moment to decipher it, because the characters were so small. It was a rhyme, and as he read it, Greg realised it was a charm. 

_By day, by night, by dawn’s early light,_

_By dusk, by noon, by the stroke of midnight,_

_At all hours, in all manner of measures of time,_

_All weather, all seasons, warm sun to frost’s rime,_

_Whenever you wish your presence concealed,_

_Hold me tight, within sight, you shall not be revealed._

_Speak softly, “don’t see me, not ever, not once,_

_until I desire, I stay in shadows ensconced.”_

_When you wish to be seen, and to reset this charm,_

_Grasp the watch tight in the warmth of your palm._

Greg smiled, and shook his head. Mycroft was obviously trying to take care of him, and the loving inscription moved him in ways he hadn’t expected. A tumble in the sheets was one thing, but the soul-deep connection he had with Mycroft was something he could not and would not ignore. No matter how many doubts he had, or how much use he proved to be, he had a place, and a role, and a duty too. He could identify with that. He had spent his whole life devoted to duty in one way or another.

“And what’s more, I am not stopping now,” he murmured into the silence. He finished fastening shirt buttons, slung his tie round his neck, settling it as neatly as he could, attempting to recall how to tie a proper full windsor knot. He slipped his feet into his new shoes and shrugged on his waistcoat, dropping the watch into his pocket once the buttons were done up, and arranging the chain across the front. Slipping the suit jacket on, he then reached for the dark robes, smoothing his hands down the front. 

He took a deep breath and murmured, “Into Battle.”

**0000000**

“Oh, Great Saints…” Mycroft was again struck speechless as Greg appeared at the head of the staircase, once again dressed in his formal attire. Beside him, Anthea’s hushed “ _woah,”_ was understandable. Greg wore the black suit beneath his new robes, complete with a matching waistcoat, pocket square, and tie of dark purple damask. Mycroft could not help noticing that Greg’s tie was complete with a full Windsor knot. What would turn heads (quite apart from the devastatingly handsome face and artfully-styled silver hair above it) would be the never-before-seen quintuple braided border on the collar, ending in the Source’s knot on his left shoulder. 

The whole effect was more than a touch ostentatious, Mycroft considered, but then, the occasion warranted it. His own robes were no less formal, and no less ostentatious for the role; the sharp white pinstripe suit slightly more of a contrast on the black than he would normally wear, his own tie and pocket square of formal dark blood-red against the black, his robes plain black with matt satin collar and lapels, the silver embroidered sigils along them small but clear against the black satin collar and border of his robes. 

“Gregory...You look…” The words died in his throat. 

“He means you look fantastic, Greg.” Anthea grinned at her boss, placed a finger beneath Mycroft’s chin and gently shut his mouth for him. “Come on, stop ogling him or we’ll never get there,” she murmured so only he could hear. 

_Thank God for air con,_ Greg thought, in the car. The air was thankfully frigid because his robes were going to kill him. Probably from heat exhaustion. 

“Now remember,” Mycroft said, looking not one whit affected by the heat, “stay one step behind me and to the right, unless I bring you level with me. If I introduce you, you may step forward then, and simply bow like we rehearsed. If I do not choose to introduce you, there will be a good reason, so please trust me. If someone profers their hand, you can take it, but it is your choice. I doubt anyone will be so presumptuous. It isn’t a recognised greeting in the Mage community. If in doubt, don’t. It is quite a simple rule.” 

Greg nodded. “I’m used to that. Got warned off it when I first started the liaison job. Not a problem.” He was gratified when Mycroft smiled warmly at him.

“I forget how much you already know. Forgive me, Gregory, if I tell you something you are already aware of.”

“Nah, better told twice than not at all.” 

“Are you quite alright with this, my dear?”

“Never felt less prepared in all my days, but I’ll manage. Adapt and survive, eh?”

Mycroft chuckled. “I imagine that of all people you are very good at that.”

The Temple loomed large and forbidding in the dusk, lights already streaming out of the door and spilling onto the steps. There were countless people already gathering, and Greg had a momentary attack of nerves. 

“Calmly, my dear. I am here.” The car whispered to a stop along the kerb and the driver alighted to open their door. Anthea got out first, in a swirl of dark magenta cloak, heels clicking on the pavement. She stepped to one side, drawing curious looks from people who were on their way inside. Greg got out first, wrapping his cloak around him. It neatly concealed the robes with their revealing knot. When Mycroft got out, several gasps were heard in the vicinity and people busied themselves making their way inside rather than be caught staring. _You’ve not seen the half of it yet,_ Greg found himself thinking. Together, they walked up the steps to the waiting footmen in their traditional livery, and the bright lights beyond. 

Sherlock and John were already waiting in the entrance hall, both of them looking resplendent in their own robes. Sherlock's was a brighter purple than Greg’s, again bordered with black and embroidered with many intricate sigils. John was wearing plain dark blue, the knot on his shoulder a double strand, the golden yellow of the Inspeaker coupled with the blue of the Patterner. They greeted each other warmly, and Mycroft removed his cloak, handing it to a waiting footman. He glanced expectantly at Greg when he hesitated. 

“Take heart, my dear,” Mycroft murmured softly. Greg steeled himself and removed the cloak, feeling exposed. Mycroft took his hand, and drew him close. “Don’t let it overset you,” he said gently. “You have the upperhand and the power here. Surprise them all. Shock them. You are an impossibility as far as everyone here is concerned, but you are not a fraud. Remember that. You can hear thoughts, you can travel to places you have never seen, you can befriend animals and you can anticipate actions, and you can unravel their magic,” he reminded. “Remember what you have learned about shielding, and allow me to help shield you until you feel confident in doing so yourself. Otherwise this many minds when you have only just become cognisant of your abilities could be overwhelming. Remember that this is a formality, we are already in power.” With that, he swept up the remaining stairs, flanked by Greg and Anthea, followed differentially by Sherlock and John.


	11. Making An Entrance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conclave begins, but there's a problem. Seems like something has been forgotten in the rush...

Mycroft took them to an anteroom beside the main Hall, into relative peace and quiet. They were preceded into it by two liveried footmen who held the doors open for them. Sherlock smiled at his brother, then nodded to him in a formal salute. John opened the connecting door into the Hall admitting a wave of sound, hundreds of voices all speaking at once. He held the door open as first Sherlock and then Anthea stepped through. He followed, smiling at them reassuringly before he closed the door behind him. 

“And so it begins,” Mycroft intoned, his tone dry. He fixed Greg with a look and raised an eyebrow. “Are you absolutely sure you are ready for this?” he asked, concern in his tone.

“Not in the slightest,” Greg said, with a broad smile and a shrug. “However, I _am_ going through with it, no matter what.” He took a deep breath. “You _can_ rely on me, Mycroft, I promise you. Not going to bolt for the hills.”

“I fear you might be justified in doing so,” Mycroft said a little sadly.

“Nah, glutton for punishment, me. So what happens now?”

Mycroft's smile did not reach his eyes. “Now, I face the music. I am leaving you here for what should only be a short while. One of the Stewards will stay with you. You can enter when I send for you. They will escort you, so please don’t worry about missing your cue or anything like that, and it won’t be for long. I admit to a flare for the dramatic. I want to keep you hidden for a while. I want to hear my detractors make their presence known, which I am certain they won’t hesitate to do. I expect they will make a petition before the main proceedings have a chance to begin. If I appear without a source, then they will feel justified in calling me out.”

“You want them to fall into your trap, don’t you?”

“Of course I do. I hope your existence has not leaked out. Nobody knows anything about you, and I rely absolutely on the discretion of the staff. The porter who admitted us to the Sphere for your attunement yesterday will not have breathed a word of my dealings, but even he will not have much of an idea what I was doing or who you were. What happens within a sphere stays within a sphere. They are completely cut off from everything.”

“So it’s likely nobody knows about me?”

“Almost certain, despite my speculations as to the rumour mill having started. Even if they know, it is unlikely they know about your abilities. So, prepare to make your grand entrance when I send for you. Enjoy your moment, Gregory.” Mycroft leaned in and kissed him, a gentle press of lips designed to reassure and fortify. Greg kissed back, offering his own reassurance. Then Mycroft stepped back, to the door. He took a moment, and then knocked. The door was opened from the other side, and Mycroft stepped through. Greg had time to hear the complete drop in conversation, before the door swung shut. Then all he had to do was wait. 

Mycroft stepped into the Hall, pausing to sweep a glance across the assembled company. A liveried Steward with a staff bashed the metal tip three times on the ground, and intoned a loud “All rise for His Eminence, Mycroft Holmes, Magus Sentinel Prime of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland!” There was an immediate shuffling as everyone in the Council Hall hastened to stand, and Mycroft walked steadily to his seat, careful not to trip as he made his way up the shallow steps to the canopied and heavily carved oak chair. He turned to face the assembled company, paused for less than a breath, and then with a dramatic swirl of his robes sat down with as much dignity as he could muster, straight-backed and stony-faced.

“Pray be seated!” the official called, and there came the general rustlings as everyone took their seats again. 

“Pray silence for His Eminence,” the Steward called. 

“Fellow Mages, Sources, Companions, and Allies,” Mycroft began, as was tradition. A charm embedded in the chair amplified his voice to carry across the space. Mycroft had activated it when he sat down, pressing his hand to the dragon’s head that adorned the left chair arm. As long as he left his hand there, the charm would remain operative. “I bid you welcome to this, our first Conclave of the new year. As many of you know, the former Magus Prime has been impeached and found guilty of crimes against our community. He has therefore been replaced and I am now proud to stand as Magus Sentinel Prime for the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland. I am duly and lawfully elected to this role, as is our tradition. However, should anyone have due cause to challenge this decision, then now is the time to speak. In accordance with the Rights and Privileges accorded to all Mages, any and all have the capacity to lodge an objection, which will be heard in accordance with the laws of our Order. If any have such an objection, I give them leave to approach and let them be heard.” Mycroft subsided, awaiting to see if anyone would take the bait. He did not have long to wait. A group of twelve mages stood forward, and he recognised them as predominantly supporters of Magnusson, together with a few younger acolytes. _Probably radicalised by the man’s followers,_ Mycroft considered darkly. He waited, seeing that one such youth was the spokesperson. _That’s it,_ he thought, _hide behind one of your impressionable neonates._

He watched the young woman approach, bearing a sheaf of papers. She stepped closer, nervous. Mycroft flicked a glance to Sherlock, noting where his attention lay. He was cataloguing faces, scanning the woman’s associates and committing them to memory, watching to see who the supporters were who might not have revealed their faces. 

“Approach, and state your case,” Mycroft invited, graciously. He watched the young woman step forward. She turned to the audience and brandished the papers.

“My name is Alice Holden, Oblate of the Fire Principle, Wessex Coterie. I am my coterie stand before you to bear witness to this challenge. Behold, I hold the names of all who object to Mycroft Holmes instatement in the position of Magus Prime,” she said. “I have 230 names, nearly forty percent of our number who object to this occurrence. We propose that Magus Holmes is removed forthwith.”

“Mistress Holden,” Mycroft prompted politely. “May the assembled know the nature of the objection? On what grounds is the petition presented?”

Holden pivoted on one foot, gracefully. She was unsourced, Mycroft noted. Thus she was very low down the pecking order. It gave her certain protections, which was clever. A mage of lower status and power was always under the protection of those higher than they were, even the Magus Prime she was seeking to unseat. She flipped back her long hair, and bowed respectfully. “The clause that we have cited in this objection is that his Eminence, Mycroft Holmes, Magus Sentinel Prime, is unsourced, and thus unfit to hold such a cardinal office as Magus Prime of the United Kingdom.” If anything, she looked triumphant. Mycroft immediately lost any sympathy he might have had for someone who had obviously been used. It was abundantly clear that she was predisposed to vindictiveness. 

Mycroft sat back, seemingly to consider her words. Then he stood, and turned to a gallery on the other side of the room, opposite his seat. “I call on the Justices of the United Kingdom to stand witness to this objection, and to pass their judgement on its validity in law. Will you so stand?” 

A small blond woman stood up and bowed to Mycroft. “Lady Alicia Elizabeth Smallwood, Dame Justice Elect of England, and I will stand in judgement of this claim.” 

Beside her, a dark haired man stood and bowed to Mycroft, as Lady Smallwood sat back down. “I, the Honourable Victor Trevor, Justice Elect of Ireland, will stand in judgement to this claim.” 

A smaller man took his turn, bowing to Mycroft with respect. “James Abernathy, Justice Elect for Scotland,” he said. “I will stand in judgement to this claim also.” 

The last to stand was a willowy blond woman, her expression thoughtful. “Lady Sarah Sawyer-Jarvis, Duchess of Wrexham, Justice Elect for Wales,” she announced. “I will stand in judgement to this claim.”

Mycroft acknowledged their involvement with a grateful smile. “My thanks,” he said. “Mistress Holden, is the fact that I have no Source the only objection?”

The informality of the question seemed to catch her off guard. She turned to him. “Yes,” she said, then remembered her manners and where she was. “Yes, sir, Your Eminence. The wording is specific.” 

“May I see the petition? Seeing as it is my position that is under threat.”

She walked to him and handed the sheaf of paper over. He scanned the page, noting the date, time, duly registered wording of the complaint. _No Mage elected to the office of Magus Sentinel Prime of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland shall do so without the support of a Bonded Source recognised and registered in the jurisdiction of the land in which he resides. Mycroft Holmes is not currently Bonded to a duly registered Source and as such, his tenure is null and void._

Mycroft sat back, seeming to consider the wording. A cold fear settled in his gut, but he kept the emotion from his face. He realised that in their haste, they had failed to register Gregory on the list of known Sources of England. They were bonded, and he _was_ a Source, but… It was a technicality but it was one which could cost them dearly. He caught Anthea’s eye and blinked. She frowned, and her eyes narrowed. “A valid claim,” Mycroft said, “if it were true.” He watched Alice’s expression change to puzzlement. “Would Dame Justice Elect Smallwood do me the honour of approaching?” he announced.

In the anteroom, Greg wondered what was happening. He stood as near the door as possible, straining to hear. He felt something must have gone wrong, but he didn’t know what. Suddenly, the door behind him opened and Anthea appeared. “What’s wrong?” he asked her, trying to keep his voice low. “It’s taking ages…”

“Honestly, I’m not sure, but he shot me a look that said we’ve missed something.” 

“What?” 

“At this moment, I don’t know. You _are_ bonded, aren’t you?”

“Yes, we’ve got the paperwork and witnesses. It was done properly. Mycroft even made sure it was a registrar who was properly trained in what was needed for a Bonding, so he knew what he was doing.”

For a moment she stared off into the distance, obviously thinking. “Oh,” she said, her face suddenly registering doubt. “Are you on the Register?”

“Register? What register?”

“The Sources’ Register of Great Britain and Ireland.”

“Never heard of it. Mycroft hasn’t said anything about that.”

“Can you remember your National Insurance number?”

“Yes, I think so.” He watched her get her phone out and begin typing.

“We can begin the process, and that should be enough. Do you have your driver’s licence on you?”

“Driver’s licence and warrant card, if you need them.”

“Great. I can do it on my phone, here and now. It won’t be ratified for fifteen days, but that’s a technicality. If I can show due process, we should be in the clear. The only impediment to being accepted onto the register is a criminal record, which I am certain won’t be an issue for you. I just hope an uncompleted registration won’t matter to the Justices.”

“Justices?”

“Yes. There are four who oversee the Mage Courts. They’re equivalent to your Crown Court judges. They’re the ones whose word is final concerning any magical legal proceedings. They sit as a group of three as a rule, although Alicia is their overall boss.”

“So what’s with this register then?”

“By the letter of the law, every Source should be listed in the Register, because they are magical practitioners of a sort. The register helps the mages and the sources to get together, better serving the community. An unregistered Source technically has no business bonding, but you were not to know that. Mycroft should have. However, it could be argued that necessity overrides bureaucracy in this instance. I hope the Justices are feeling generous…”

Mycroft waited for Alicia to approach, and took his hand off the dragon to silence the charm, placing his hand on the other arm rest, carved to resemble a griffon. That one effectively shielded them from being overheard, even from Alice who was standing not far away. 

“Mycroft, what seems to be the hitch. Are you bonded or not?”

“I am. There may be an impediment to the process though.”

“Oh? Has the Great Mycroft Holmes slipped up?” she murmured, amused.

“This is serious, Alicia,” Mycroft hissed. “I _am_ bonded, ratified under law and duly witnessed, but I realise that in our haste, we have not yet had the opportunity to register Gregory with the Source List.” 

“Ah. Somewhat of an oversight.” 

”How would the Justices view a hasty registration, in view of the challenge?”

”If he’s unregistered, and stays unregistered, then it might be problematic. After all, the law is clear, and so is the challenge. However, unless the challengers know he’s not registered, then it is unlikely they will make trouble over it. If you can register him soon, then the only argument I can see would be the order in which things were done. Your bonding is necessary, however…” She paused as a liveried steward approached, waiting respectfully at a distance outside of the shield. Mycroft glared at him, lifting his hand from the griffon’s head. Sound flooded back in. 

“Yes,” he said, sharply.

“Your Eminence, I bear a message from Her Ladyship, Viscountess Hove.”

“What is it?”

“She wishes you to know that she has the matter you asked her to deal with in hand.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft said tersely. “Please extend my thanks to her.” The man bowed, and backed away, Mycroft turned to Alicia, replacing his hand on the griffon.

“Thank the Gods for a capable PA,” Alicia murmured, smiling. 

“She picks up the slack,” Mycroft said gently. “Sometimes I fail to be as omnipotent as my brother thinks I am. Apologies for delaying the meeting.”

“Nonsense, Mycroft. Merely a hitch, nothing more. We both know your Bonded is a policeman, so I very much doubt that there will be any problem to his registration.” The lady smiled, beatifically, and walked back to the bench, conversing quietly with her peers once she sat back down. It was obvious that she was discussing the matter, and bringing them up to speed. Their bench was charmed similarly to the ‘throne’, to make sure no one could overhear their conversations, or to amplify their voices, depending on necessity.

Anthea sat back as the man delivered Mycroft’s thanks. “Okay, it’s gone through their website. You are officially registered, although the date is a bit dodgy, and it will still take two weeks to ratify and for your name to be added to the official list. Your warrant card and driver’s licence were perfect for their requirements for ID, so no worries there. Now all you need is for the Justices to accept your bonding and your position.”

“Dear God, could they refuse?”

“Technically, yes, but Alicia, Lady Smallwood, is a very old friend of Mycroft’s. She’s always been an advocate where he is concerned. Technically, they could call her out and point out that there is a conflict of interest and she would have to step down, but I think it would be suicide to do so, both political and social. Already Mycroft is much more popular than Magnusson ever was, and even more popular than Oldacre. The others know, he is going to be much better than Magnusson. It is in their interests to ratify him and, by default, you. You’re a police officer, for Goodness’ sake. As a Source you’ll be good, but as Source Pursuivant you’re perfect.”

“Just wish I had your confidence.” 

Just then the door opened and a Steward stepped in. “Excuse me, Your Grace. His Eminence, Mycroft Holmes, has requested that you join him. If I may suggest, sir, stand to his left, bow to acknowledge him, and wait. The Justices may require you to approach the Bench before you take your place beside him.”

“Thank you, good to know.”

“I should get back too,” Anthea said. “I’ll go back the long way round. You’ll be fine, Greg. Knock ‘em dead.” With a smile and a wink, Anthea disappeared back through the other door. 

Greg took a steadying breath and followed the Steward out. He was not prepared for the man to speak, much less announce him. Once again, he rapped his staff on the ground three times. “Be upstanding,” he called, “for His Grace, Gregory Lestrade, Source Pursuivant to His Eminence, Mycroft Holmes, Magus Sentinel Prime of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland.”

Greg stepped into the Hall to be faced with the entire audience, including Mycroft, getting to their feet. As he emerged, there was a gradual ripple of sound, gasps and murmurings. Maintaining a serious expression, he stepped to Mycroft’s left, and faced him with a bow of the head. Mycroft acknowledged him similarly, with a small proud smile, then he sat back down again.

“Be seated!” the Steward declared, and everyone sat back with a rustling and dull thumping of feet, all except Greg who remained standing. 

“Your Grace,” someone said. Greg looked toward the speaker, seeing the canopied bench with its four occupants on the other side of the room. Directly opposite Mycroft’s seat, all the way to the other side of the large council chamber. “If it pleases you, would you approach the Bench?” 

Greg squared his shoulders and gave Mycroft another formal nod, then walked—far more steadily than he felt—all the way down the nave between the galleries wherein all the other mages sat, toward the Bench and the four people waiting to grill him. He felt like he was on stage or emerging onto a football pitch with a full crowd around him. There were the inevitable mutterings as he passed, and he kept his eyes resolutely straight ahead. When he got within a yard of the box-pew affair that was the Justices’ domain, Alicia stood and beckoned him closer. It felt much like walking into the deadening effect of the Sphere.

“Ah, that’s better,” she murmured. “Greetings, my dear, I’m sorry for the formal claptrap, but things need to be done right.” 

Greg blinked. That was not the reply he had expected. “Quite alright. Are you...Lady Smallwood?”

The lady smiled. “Call me Alicia,” she replied. “While in close proximity to the Bench, nobody can hear us, so don’t step back too far, got that? We have a silencing charm at work. So,” she raised an eyebrow at him. “Am I to assume this Bonding is consensual between you both?” 

Greg nodded. “Absolutely. He and I, we’re….well, I don’t know how to explain it. He says it’s past lives, fate, but whatever it is, I can’t deny our connection. I may not be fully cognisant of what it means yet, but I have given my consent.” He watched her nod, a small private smile on her lips. Whatever she was thinking, she didn’t share it. 

“So, Gregory, is it? It seems as if we have a little technical hitch. Did that lovely capable girl manage to register you before you stepped out of that door?”

“Yes, she did, and Greg is fine, really. Is all this going to prove problematic?”

“I think we can work around it. Depends if the opposition are going to be tiresome or not. Tell me, how accomplished are you?”

“Um...my training has really only just begun. I was denied the opportunity to learn when I was younger. Mycroft is convinced I have every right to seek reparation from the person who told me I didn’t have any magic when I was thirteen. Did he tell you that bit?”

“Some of it. I gather it was a Cunning Man? Although there was something more... _immutable_ cast on you, by the sound of it.”

Greg sighed. “So I understand. As I recall, the man responsible went by the name of Melchior Fletcherson. He came to my school, apparently he was called in every couple of years or so, to _sense_ those with Talent.”

“Mm, a common occurrence, as I am sure you are aware.” She paused. “Did you _want_ to see reparation?”

“Honestly, I’d be more interested to know why he did it. Mycroft thinks it could be something pursuing us through time, but I’m not so sure.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know, it just...it doesn’t _feel_ right, if you get my drift.”

“Listen to your instincts, Greg. It is a valuable indicator. Someone such as yourself, someone who commands all five Magical Senses, instinct is probably quite strong in you.” 

“If someone knew who I was, knew what I would become, perhaps they were trying to stop me, or even Mycroft, but I have no idea if I’m right. That might not even be a thing…”

“Oh, I assure you, it most definitely is a _thing,_ as you put it. Not only is it possible, it is also illegal. I should very much like to hand this to our security services, and see if they can locate your Mr Fletcherson. Can you remember what he looked like?”

“Perfectly,” Greg said. “ He was an IC1 male…”

“Excuse me, a what?” one of the others asked.

“Oh, apologies, Your Honour,” Greg said automatically, “I’m too mired in police procedure.”

“That is certainly not a problem, Your Grace, and there is no requirement to refer to us in that manner, not from someone of your rank…”

“Please,” Greg said with a self-effacing smile, “tell me how I should refer to you then? I’m afraid I’m so new to this.”

Alicia smiled. “If you wish to be polite, and formal, then Madam or Sir is fine. Our first names are also fine when we meet in less formal circumstances. Indeed I do hope we meet in less formal circumstances, Gregory.”

Greg nodded. “Thank you, and as to your question, _sir,_ it’s a quick code we use in the police to describe ethnic appearance. IC1 is someone from white northern European background.”

“Thank you. My apologies for the interruption, Your Grace. I merely wished for clarification.”

“No problem,” Greg replied. Such deferential behaviour felt weird. “Um..Fletcherson was odd to look at, shabby tweeds, partially shaved head, tattoos…”

“Tattoos?”

“A frog and a badger on his neck, a blue spiral on the left side of his head, under his hair. Hair was shaved on the left side. He was old, at least he was to thirteen year old me, anyway. He looked wizened, tanned skin, really clear blue eyes, they were piercing. Wore a gold hoop in his left ear. He sounded...local. West country, as I remember. At least, I don’t remember an unusual accent.”

“I think that’s a very comprehensive description. Leave it with us, Gregory. I am sure if he is still alive, we shall find him. Now,” Alicia paused, looking at him carefully. “I am sure you understand, and I am certain Mycroft will have told you, you are completely unique. Nobody has ever been recorded as being able to utilise every ability in a Source’s repertoire. People are looking at you with some surprise. Now, while I am aware that you are not a performing seal, I am also aware that folk are never going to believe that you are what you say you are, despite that knot on your shoulder and Mycroft’s patronage. Don’t worry, Mycroft sent me a message the day before yesterday. Unheard of, dear boy, completely unheard of.” Beside her, the three others nodded in agreement. 

“As far as it goes,” Greg admitted. “I am a novice at controlling my abilities.” 

“Alicia has informed us that you have rudimentary control, Mycroft informed her that you told him you have used some of the skills in the course of your everyday life,” Victor Trevor observed.

“Some, but very low-level as far as I know.”

“You can unravel?” Alicia said. “Instinctively, Mycroft tells me.”

“Believe me, it was a surprise to me too.”

“Very well, if you consent to this,” Alicia said, carefully, “then a brief test to allow you to confirm your abilities for all those here present is all that will be needed. Do my esteemed colleagues agree that this is the way forward?” There were nods of consent. “Very well, Abernathy, I think you would be suited to this role. Keep the magic light, and reversible, in case of accidents, if you please.” 

“If it helps, Mycroft shot a silencing spell at me, and when that didn’t work, he tried a paralysis spell, and that didn’t take either.” He paused, seeing the incredulity on her face. “Er...what’s the matter?”

“Matter?” Her eyebrows had risen almost to her hairline. The others were equally perturbed. “Greg... _nobody_ should be able to throw off a paralysis spell, except another Mage. Great Saints…” Greg smiled. Now he knew where Mycroft got that exclamation from. She waved a weak hand. “And you with no formal training as well? This is going to be an eye opener and no mistake. No matter, Abernathy, keep things simple and safe. We want proof, not a show of power.” 

Abernathy came around the bench front to stand with Greg. They actually shook hands, a significant gesture which could have left no one who saw it under any doubt that Greg was not in trouble here. James was a pleasant man in his 40s, with film-star good looks. He might be the youngest judge, but he was nevertheless a Justice. Greg was momentarily thankful that Alicia had picked him.

From his seat on the dias, Mycroft watched uneasily as the Judges made their deliberation. He knew there was absolutely nothing he could do, no way he could help Greg. He sat back, deliberately affecting a nonchalance he did not feel. This was something Gregory would have to handle on his own. Mycroft felt more helpless than he ever had before, and he knew he could do nothing but sit still and wait, and hope that he had prepared his partner, his Bonded Source, for whatever he was experiencing now. Mycroft had been prepared to be challenged, but forgetting to register Gregory on the Source List had been a major oversight. _How on earth did I forget that?_ It was uncharacteristic, and unsettling. He tried to shrug it off, to put it down to the lack of time and Gregory’s unfamiliarity with his skills, his need to be secured quickly… Mycroft shivered. _Secured quickly?_ That sounded distasteful, like he’d coerced him into their relationship. 

He shivered, glanced about him feigning indifference, and caught Sherlock’s eye as his gaze shifted back to what was going on at the Justices’ Bench. The man frowned slightly, eyes narrowing. If anyone would know and understand the turmoil going on inside him right now, it would be his brother. His focus was captured by movement from the bench. Alicia was stepping out from behind the Bench, and Greg was stepping back. He watched Gregory and Abernathy shake hands and wondered. Then Gregory was striding back toward him, and Alicia was moving to the center of the room.

Alicia stepped forward and the silence around the Bench was abruptly switched off. “Ladies and Gentlemen, if we could command your attention,” she declared, voice carrying easily. Mycroft had watched and listened to the rising murmurs of speculation and surprise rippling through the audience. He had watched the eyes on Gregory as he walked to the Justices’ bench, the curiosity, the speculation. He watched as Alicia waited a little while for the murmurings to settle down. “I thank you, one and all,” she said, stepping into the center of the room. “Magus Prime, Respected Ladies and Gentlemen of the Conclave. We, the Justices of Great Britain and Ireland, have reached an accord. We have heard the challenge to Mycroft Holmes’ tenure as Magus Sentinel Prime of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland. We have deliberated with each other and we all now concur.”


	12. Dancing to a Different Tune

Mycroft had sat up straighter as the Judges stepped forward. Gregory stepped away from them, but curiously did not walk all the way to take his seat beside his Bonded. He managed to cast a brief smile Mycroft’s way, but he stopped in the middle of the room, some paces from Alicia. 

Alicia turned to face the dias as she pronounced judgement. She smiled at Mycroft, trying to reassure. “The Bond between Mycroft Holmes and Gregory Lestrade,” she said firmly, “is lawful. It is ratified under Mage law and recorded in the Registry. Mycroft Holmes tenure as Magus Sentinel Prime of Great Britain and Ireland remains unchallenged.” 

There was an eruption of sound as Alicia finished her announcement as the audience broke into speculating chatter and scattered applause. The lady held up her hand for silence. “Ladies and Gentlemen, we have an unprecedented occurrence here tonight. His Grace, Gregory Lestrade, Source Pursuivant to His Eminence, Mycroft Holmes, is the first known occurrence of a Source who has command of _all five_ Source abilities. As the more observant of you will no doubt have noticed, the knot he bears upon his shoulder is woven of five cords. He is aware of how unusual this is, and has graciously agreed, at no small inconvenience to himself, to prove his abilities to you all. He is aware that Source Pursuivant is a role that comes with many responsibilities, not least of which is the protection of this country and all it contains. Gregory is a ranking police detective, an Inspector in Her Majesty’s Constabulary, and as such should be beyond contestation, but...He is willing to verify his unique position, to have you stand witness to his abilities, and to facilitate this, he has agreed that Justice Abernathy be the one to test him, here and now. Gentlemen, the floor is yours.”

Alicia’s words hit Mycroft like a freight train. Relief that the Justices had agreed that his tenure was legitimate was swept away by the announcement that Gregory had agreed to a Testing. He had never worked so hard to keep the anxiety from his face. He was angry at their presumption, even though he both understood why and had also expected it to the point of warning Greg that they might demand it. He was still half out of his seat before he knew it, on his way to intervening, to stop what he viewed as a gross trespass on Gregory’s rights, when he caught Greg’s eye. _Easy._ The word soaked soothingly into his mind. Startled, he sat back, wondering. _Don’t fret._ The voice was Greg’s but he wasn’t opening his mouth. The smile on his face was confident, unafraid. Mycroft watched Greg nod, once, and then turn to face James. Mycroft could only sit there, aware out of the corner of his eye that Sherlock and John had left their seats and were standing in a better position to rush in if there was a problem. Mycroft was unexpectedly touched at their concern. Heart in his mouth, he turned back to watch the proceedings, knowing he could only wait and hope.

Abernathy stood forward. Greg spread his hands wide, facing the man fearlessly. Greg suddenly _knew_ that he was about to be tested for Inspeech first...

“What am I thinking?” James asked, predictably. Greg focused on the man in front of him but there was a clamour of other voices. _Damn it, too many,_ he thought, panicked. He wasn’t prepared for so many. He stared at Abernathy hard, trying to focus on the man’s mind voice, which Greg knew would _feel_ like his own voice. Blocking all the others was well nigh impossible. It was like looking for one face in a moving crowd. He took a breath, steadied himself, and….

“You’re hoping they serve beef tonight?” Greg said incredulously. Abernathy laughed, appreciatively. 

“Correct,” he said, ruefully. A scatter of applause broke out. “And now?”

This time it was easier, because he had a measure of what the man’s voice _sounded_ like in his head. Greg smiled. “You sure you want me to share that? I mean, there are ladies present…” That drew a scatter of laughter. Abernathy grinned back at the joke. Greg focused again. A picture of a camel came to mind. “You’re thinking...your youngest daughter prefers camels with two humps than one...and you want to get her a soft toy camel for her birthday?” Abernathy applauded with a smile, and the audience followed suit. Amazingly they were on Greg’s side in this. 

“Pray Silence!” one of the stewards declared at Alicia’s prompting, and the sound died down.

 _Patterning next,_ Greg picked up, and without warning, Abernathy flung something at his head, but he had anticipated the move, even though he had no idea what had been flung. He simply wasn’t there when the things shot past. Again, James flung something, and again, Greg moved out of the way seconds before the things hit. They appeared to be balls of harmless light, and Abernathy sent a third and final wave toward him and yet again Greg dodged with Paterner’s precision. 

Again the wave of applause and another call for silence ensued. Mycroft watched attentively, awaiting the next test. Abernathy seemed to be waiting for something, glancing up at the large high windows at the side of the council chamber. Suddenly with a twist of his hand, and a muttered spell, the windows flew open, and a gust of wind preceded the arrival of a large bird of prey that scythed through the air, aiming straight for Greg’s head! _Garrow!_ Mycroft recognised the bird as one of the Guardians of the Mages’ Temple. The birds normally lived in a large erie on the roof of the newer building behind the quad. Abernathy must have projected a request for one of the birds to come down. They were aggressive creatures, and not for nothing were they employed as guards for the premises. Slightly larger than normal eagles, they were not suited to indoors either and the chamber was perhaps one of the few places Garrow might fly unhindered. 

What happened next was nothing short of a miracle. The golden eagle deflected, landing some feet away, beak snapping angrily. Greg paused, assessing, and then approached it, holding his hands wide in a peaceful gesture. He bent and knelt on one knee, bowing respectfully. The large raptor approached awkwardly, warily, then snapped its beak at him imperiously.

“Sir,” he heard Greg whisper, soothingly. “A pleasure to meet you,” he murmured. He reached the bird, who flapped a little nervily. “S’okay. I’m not the enemy here,” Greg murmured. The bird quieted. Then it _crooned_. Greg reached to scritch the feathers of the massive bird’s head and what’s more, it let him. _Wildspeaking proven,_ Mycroft thought with pride. Greeting finished, Greg bowed once more and the eagle also inclined its head, mollified and respectful. It launched into the air, flew in a low pass over the audience, as if to make a point, and disappeared out of the window again with a loud dramatic screech. 

“It is a little hard to prove an ability in Far Travelling in such artificial circumstances,” Abernathy announced, once the furor of the Eagle’s passing had died down. “As I am sure all here present will attest to. It isn’t something that can be easily shown, so I am certain after the next test, you will all be convinced of His Grace’s talents to the point that I hope you will see the wisdom in my refusing to test just one of them. Now, sir…” Without warning, Abernathy flung his hand out, casting a spell at him, and Greg felt it wash over him without any effect. He braced for the next one. 

“Is that,” Greg asked, “the best you can do?” Scattered and slightly uncertain laughter reached his ears. 

“That was a spell that should have silenced you,” James complained. “Much good that did.” Again there was a scattering of laughter, and tensions eased perceptibly. 

The next one was a paralysis spell or Mycroft was no judge of a person’s gestures. The energy washed over and around Greg and for a moment, he stood motionless. Then with timing worthy of a Royal Shakespeare Company actor, he moved, shaking his limbs out and smiling. “I take it that was no better?” he asked. “Losing your touch, Abernathy?” 

James laughed and held his hands up in defeat. He turned to the audience. “Ladies and Gentlemen, your new Source Pursuivant just _unravelled_ a silencing spell and a paralysis spell.” Mycroft watched him bow to Gregory, who bowed back, and then the two men stepped forward and shook hands. “Thank you, Your Grace,” he said, “for your patience and indulgence this evening. I shall allow you to take your rightful place beside your Bonded.” Nobody missed the emphasis on the word _rightful._ He bowed again and removed himself back to the Bench to applause from the audience. Greg turned, and walked steadily toward Mycroft, as Sherlock and John both discreetly resumed their own seats. 

On approaching the dias, Greg stopped, gave Mycroft a formal bow, and then stepped up to his own seat beside the Magus Prime. He sat gracefully, in a swirl of his robes, and faced the assembled mages and sources with a smile. How he could do so was beyond Mycroft’s ken at that precise minute. 

“Very well,” Mycroft said, his voice carrying to the whole hall again. “If I may call this Conclave to order. My thanks to the Justices for their clarity and impartiality as usual. I also wholeheartedly thank my Source for indulging us this evening, and Justice Abernathy for his capable accomplishment.” There was applause, which rose in volume, and went on for quite a while. Mycroft eventually held up a hand for silence. “A display of rare talents the likes of which we have not seen in a long while,” he said. “Now, it is my onerous duty perhaps to bring us onto other matters. Are there any other points of order before we resume this evening’s agenda?” Wisely, nobody said anything, to which Mycroft nodded. “Very well then. It gives me great pleasure to declare our Parliament Sessions open for this year.” He sat back and the Chamberlain of the Court, a tall man resplendent in his formal black, gold, and ermine robes, carrying a silver-clad staff of office, stepped forward and announced the order of the evening, with petitions to be brought, and a whole lot more that sounded somewhat tedious to Greg’s ears.

Tedious wasn’t in it. There were so many formal petitions, for the right to be granted lands and titles, to the right to pursue some form of experimentation, to the dispute between two mages over the rights to certain research. Mycroft heard it all, and Greg feigned interest, as he supposed he should be doing, in order to support Mycroft. Most of what was said eluded him, because it pertained to laws he had no idea about. Mycroft requested minute detail, and passed at least three judgements to the Justices, who gracefully exonerated him from having to make the decisions and promised to review the cases further. In judgement, however, Mycroft himself was fair, and listened to all sides, and deliberated, and came to a conclusion that was balanced to all concerned. 

“If there is no further formal business for this Conclave,” Mycroft said eventually, pausing for effect, “then I declare this evening’s session closed. Dinner will be served in the Grand Gallery in half an hour.” He stood, and Greg stood up with him. Mycroft reached for his hand. “Thank you for your attendance. Enjoy the festivities.” He led the way out, heading to the anteroom. Once the door closed, he slumped onto a chair with a soft groan. 

“Love, are you okay?”

“Am I okay? Me? I have not just faced off against the Justices of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, or had magic thrown at me, again I might add...Gregory ...you are a miracle.” 

“Me? I’m ordinary…”

“You are anything but ordinary. For the Gods’ sakes, Gregory, you are _impossible.”_

Greg sighed. “I’m me, love. Always have been. Having this...these skills, doesn’t make me different. I’m always the same, no matter what. I’m a copper, I’m now a Source, and your partner...but I’m still me. Underneath it, I still love football, I still support Arsenal, love my beer, and Jazz…That’s not changed. The probability that my dirty socks will land on your bathroom floor is still near 95%, and my seat in NSY isn’t cold yet.” 

“It’s been two days, no more than two and a half, since we met...and it feels like years.”

“That’s because it is years, love. Eons, you said.”

Mycroft was silent for a while. “Only if you remember it,” he said. “Otherwise, it doesn’t exist, does it?”

“Oh, but it does. I do remember, well, bits at least. Enough that I believe you.”

Mycroft sat back, marvelling at the man who stood by him. “I need a drink,” he said. “And food. You handled that marvellously, and I should have had more faith in you.”

“Why? Didn’t you think I could handle it?” “I had no idea what they were going to throw at you.”

“Yeah, well, Alicia told James to be gentle, I think. Mind you, if that constituted the man being gentle, I’d hate to get on his bad side. And Anthea deserves a raise. She’s amazing. Worked out that we’d forgotten to register me in two minutes flat and sorted it, just like that. She’s a ninja, that girl.” 

“I am mortified that I forgot. A purely administrative error. I _never_ do that, Gregory. It could have cost us—cost _me_ —dearly.” Mycroft sighed. 

“You’ve had a lot to deal with too, you know. I don’t think one lapse proves you’ve lost your marbles.”

“It doesn’t disprove it either.”

“Well, could say you lost ‘em when you decided to take me on…” 

Mycroft smiled tiredly. “I rather think perhaps you found them for me,” he countered. “I can honestly say that life with you is infinitely less boring…”

“May you live in interesting times. That’s an old Chinese curse isn’t it?”

“While it may sound romantic, in truth there is no equivalent in the Chinese,” Mycroft explained. “However, it remains one of the more potent wishes that have been invoked in our history.”

“Yeah? Well, never mind potent wishes. What’s the chance of getting something potent to drink around here? I’m parched. Some of your...colleagues are so dry I could feel the whole room desiccating around us.” 

Mycroft gave him a weak chuckle. “Come on then, _Your Grace,_ let us not keep the assembly waiting for food, or we might have a riot on our hands.”

Greg took Mycroft’s hand and allowed the man to lead him down the corridor to the Great Hall. As they neared, the doors were opened wide for them to enter the large fan-vaulted room. Most people were already positioned around circular tables, the center of the room left as a clear space. Greg had never seen this particular room, except, he realised, in one of his far-travelling dreams. He had thought he was imagining the place Rowling had based the main hall of her magical school on, with candles suspended in midair, and illusory starlit heavens above. In truth it was a real place, decked out for the feast, tables laid with white linen, glittering silverware and crystal glass, frothy floral decorations and sugar constructions, castles and ships and knights on horseback all in white with gold leaf details. The sugar models were mounted on plinths like wedding cakes, intricate details picked out in icing, flowers around the bases. Overhead, candles were indeed suspended in midair, although the ceiling was spelled to look like an early summer evening, a blush in the sunset sky. As Greg stared, the blue was beginning to fade to dusk. 

“It will turn dark as the evening progresses,” Mycroft explained as they were guided to their table. It was noticeable that everyone was still standing. As they wove their way between the tables, the applause began, rippling through the assembled people like a tsunami until everyone was clapping. Amazed, Greg smiled at people as they passed, receiving answering smiles in return. 

“Better not linger,” Mycroft said. “Nobody sits until we do, much as with the council chamber.”

“I’m comin’ up, so you better get this party started,” Greg sang softly as they took their places, stewards pulling out their seats for them. Mycroft shot him a look of amusement. They were the only two on their table to have the privilege of a waiter holding their chairs. Once they were all seated, Mycroft made the introductions.

“Good evening, Ladies and Gentlemen, and welcome to High Table. Do please allow me to introduce Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, my new Source and my Bonded partner. Gregory, you know Anthea, Sherlock and John already of course.” Greg grinned at John who smirked back at him. Mycroft gestured with an elegant hand to his left. “Magus Irene Adler, and her Source Kate Madigan. My good friends, Magus Tobias Gregson, and his Source, Amy Heath, and last but not least, Magus Emma Bradley, and Ovate Marcus Attwell.” 

Greg nodded and smiled, looking around the table. “Pleased to meet you all,” he said, as the waiters busied themselves producing baskets of bread, and jugs of wine and sparkling spring water. 

“Thank you for the invite, Mycroft,” Irene purred. “Sherlock told me you had something interesting to discuss.”

“I thought we should leave talking shop until after we’ve eaten,” Mycroft said, picking up his napkin and settling it on his lap. Irene subsided with a nod. “Let us enjoy the offerings, then we can discuss work.”

Pleasantries exchanged, everyone applied themselves to their food. Soup had been served. Whatever it was, it was delicious, and mycroft assured him their cooks were very ordinary, with no magic to enhance the food. It tended to be frowned on in the Temple. They used Michelin starred chefs instead. 

Chatter was congenial and business was reserved for later, it seemed. There was even a small orchestra. 

“Gregory, did you ever learn to dance?” Mycroft asked.

“Dance? What, do you mean like on ‘Strictly’?” Mycroft looked a bit lost. “Strictly Come Dancing, the dance competition on the tele?”

“Oh, apologies, I have never seen it. I suppose, yes, if we are talking formal dancing.”

“Well, no, not really. I wasn’t bad at disco in the seventies though.”

“Disco?” 

“Yeah, you know, gyrating to pop music.”

“Yes, I am well aware of the atrocity that was _disco dancing._ ”

“Hey, it wasn’t an atrocity. We liked it. All we had anyway. Nobody in my neighbourhood could afford dance lessons, you know. I never learned the foxtrot or anything.”

“Hm, well, if you would do me the honour, you are a Pattener, Gregory, you should be able to anticipate my moves…”

“Perhaps, but what would my moves be? I can anticipate others and mirror, but if mine were any different, I wouldn’t know, would I?” 

“A fair point. If you would care to waltz, most of those moves are mirrored. I could lead…”

“You want me to dance with you?”

“Of course. Er…”

“What, Myc? What haven’t you told me?”

“It’s traditional,” Sherlock interrupted. “The Magus and his Source should perform the first dance of the evening…”

“Bollocks,” Greg swore, drawing a scandalous look from one of the other guests. “Sorry, but that’s…”

“Traditional,” Sherlock said gleefully. 

“In that case, bring it on.” Greg challenged Sherlock with a stare, which had the younger man chuckling, gleefully. 

Food over, drink flowing, Greg was pleasantly relaxed, but he wasn’t tipsy. He was hyper-aware of being careful because he was on show. He startled when Mycroft stood up and laid a hand on his shoulder. “May I request the pleasure,” he began, “of the first dance?” 

“Oh, God,” Greg muttered. “I can’t dance, you do know that, don’t you?” he stood, shaking out his robes. “I’m about to make a colossal pratt of myself, aren’t I?”

“Heaven forbid, Gregory. Link with me, and read my steps. You are a Patterner _and_ an Inspeaker, and for you this should be _simple.”_

“Simple for you maybe…” Greg allowed himself to be led onto the floor. Mycroft smiled and suddenly, Greg was seeing Mycroft’s next moves in his head, and his thoughts. He stumbled a little, but was caught deftly, and they kept going, the moves taking on a fluidity that Greg had thought lacking in himself. As they whirled around, he was aware of others joining them, and suddenly, the orchestra came to the end, and they were stopping, and clapping, and people were clapping them and Greg was out of breath but happy. 

“I would have lost the bet,” Sherlock said on their return. “You dance well.”

“I don’t dance,” Greg denied. “I was just my abilities as a Source, that’s all. Patterner _and_ inspeaker, remember? Seems a waste to use my talents just for dancing though.”

“What’s wrong with dancing? It is very good exercise, and moreover it would improve your Patterning abilities, if truth be known. However, my clod-footed brother isn’t best placed to teach you, whereas I could.” 

“You?”

“Of course. Allow me to teach you properly sometime,” Sherlock offered. “I love dancing and this is not going to be the last time you’ll need to know how. After all, you are now bonded to the British Government, when he’s not being MI5, or the CIA on a part time basis. There will be Ambassadorial Dinners to go to, garden parties at the Palace…” Sherlock grinned, gleefully. “You have no idea what you have let yourself in for, Inspector.” 


	13. The Coterie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Discussions are held in Mycroft's private chambers after the dinner, and Greg finds his place among them.

Dinner was long over, scattered coffee cups were drained and cold, and the wine had run out. The dance floor was still occupied by a few determined folk and scattered revellers were still enjoying drinks at one or two of the tables. Mycroft turned to the assembly about him and cleared his throat. “I think,” he said, “it might be time for us to withdraw to somewhere more comfortable and discuss my proposal, before we get too pissed to make any sense.” 

“Speak for yourself,” Irene said, smiling broadly. “I’m sober as a judge.”

“Darling,” Kate remonstated, “I’m not sure that phrase means anything any more. I don’t think any of our judges are still sober.” She cast her eyes to where Sarah Sawyer was dancing, a little drunkenly, with a tall dark man of middle years.

“Dear God, is that Kingsley?” Irene stared intensely at the dancers. “That woman has no taste.”

“Who?” Kate enquired.

“Sarah Sawyer, our erstwhile lawyer,” Irene rhymed, then giggled. “With none other than Kingsley Bradford, Editor-in-Chief of Occult Life magazine. Gossip monger extraordinaire…” 

“I can see the headline now, Justice Gets Just Desserts. She’s married, and so is he, and not to each other,” Amy quipped.

“What happens in Temple, stays in Temple,” Kate intoned.

“I think, Ladies and Gentlemen,” Mycroft tried again, “before we get too distracted, we should perhaps repare to my chambers and partake of a nightcap as we discuss my proposal, to make sure it remains out of public notice, especially if the journos are in evidence. If you are ready, perhaps I would suggest leaving in twos and threes, and not all at the same time. It will draw less attention. Gregory, would you accompany me, and we shall prepare the way…” 

As they left, there were waves and scattered applause, and one or two daring whistles. “Jesus,” Greg muttered, “I’m a celebrity now?”

Mycroft’s smile was sardonic. “I am afraid so, to some degree anyway. We are technically leaving early, you know? There will be plenty of speculation as to whether we’re shagging or not.”

Greg laughed, the words seemed so out of place with Mycroft’s usual vocabulary. He leaned in. “You want to put them out of their misery?”

“What did you have in mind?”

“A kiss, perhaps?” 

Mycroft sniffed. “I have nothing to prove, but...It would put paid to the rumour mill, I suppose.” He leaned in and slid an arm around Greg’s waist. “Darling, you were positively gorgeous, tonight. So confident. I am in awe, for someone so new to all of this to have coped so very well.” He closed the distance, and their lips met. Cheers and applause erupted around them. 

“Steady on, love. No getting too excited, now. We won’t have time to do anything about it.”

Mycroft pulled away, but did not let go. “Perhaps not, but a man can fantasise.” 

“Atkins,” Mycroft hailed one of the elder Stewards as they left. “Would you see that someone fetches a pot of coffee, a pot of tea, and a pot of cocoa to my chambers, as soon as possible, please? If you could spare a couple of your evening shift to attend myself and my guests for a couple of hours, I would be grateful.”

“Certainly, Your Eminence. Will you require any finger food?”

“Biscuits, perhaps?”

“I shall do my utmost, sir, and sir, if I may welcome you formally to your post, on behalf of the staff. We are all very grateful that your tenure has been ratified.”

Mycroft smiled, touched. “Thank you, Atkins. Do please give them all my thanks. You all did sterling work this evening. Thank you.” 

“Very good, sir.”

“You’ve a nice way with you, you know.” 

Mycroft glanced at Greg as they walked upstairs. “I what?”

“You.” Greg gave him the side-eye. “As if you didn’t know.”

“Know what? I am merely polite.”

“Bollocks,” Greg murmured. “I’d lay bets Magnusson wouldn’t have said anything like that. He wouldn’t have bothered, or he’d have complained they’d served the wrong kind of water, maybe even that they’d not been quick enough or something. You are a nice guy, Holmes.”

“I am not _nice_ , Gregory.” 

“I beg to differ. You have a heart, and there’s no weakness in being kind.”

“People take it for granted, they take advantage.”

“Pft,” Greg said, dismissively. “Magnusson wouldn’t have had a welcome like that. People are helpers, Mycroft. First and foremost, people want to do something good. Disaster situations, they don’t run away, they help. It’s not taking it for granted, either. Some people need help and others give it. The world, such as it is, needs kindness.”

“You’re an idealist.”

“You say that as if it’s a bad thing. Besides, I’m a lad who grew up with very little apart from the love and the care of his family, and we weren't numerous. I’ve heard the insults from the Mage community, you know. I know what it’s like to be on the receiving end, as though we were the enemy…”

“You were, once upon a time. _Nulmaj_ , to use that very old and very insulting metaphor, did not stay subjugated for long. Subjugation and inequality, starvation and deprivation breed warriors with a cause, fighters with nothing to lose. It is an old argument, and one which has deep-seated history. Not so very long ago, the Magical World was a white, predominantly-male world, with ingrained prejudices. I seek to overcome those, but it is an uphill struggle.”

“Not helped by the present Government.”

“I think you will find that the present government are there at least in part because of Magnusson. Come the election in a year or so, I think there will be a seachange.”

They reached Mycroft’s rooms and he threw wide the door. Inside it was palatial, but cosy. Dark red leather Chesterfield sofas sat around an open fireplace, porcelain and glass object d’art littered the shelves, and there were books, lots and lots of books in floor to ceiling bookcases of dark polished wood. Stacks of books were placed against the wall, on the desk, and under the window. Ferns and palms in china jardinieres were placed at strategic spots around the rooms and there were glossy cobalt blue Victorian tiles to waist height on the walls. Flock wallpaper lay above, in red acanthus swags against a dark cream. Cast iron radiators and carved linenfold panelling on the doors gave the place an Victorian gothic air, an Arts and Crafts feel to the decor. The mullioned windows with their cushioned window seats and heavy velvet curtains contained stained glass panels, featuring coats of arms of long-dead academicians and magical scholars. 

“I should say these are not Magnusson’s rooms,” Mycroft told him. “I don’t think I could bear to have set foot in there. I ordered them cleared out, carefully, after he was gone. We found some damning evidence in there too.”

“What was he up to?”

“A lot of unsavoury things. His research included genetics and eugenics…”

“ _Eugenics!”_ Greg sounded disgusted. 

“Among other things.” 

“I can imagine, except I really don’t want to.”

“Who was into Eugenics?” Irene stepped into the room, Kate on her heels. 

“Magnusson…”

“Ugh. Vile man.” She shuddered.

“He tried to seduce me away from Irene once,” Kate admitted. “Said I was exactly what he needed. He made all sorts of promises, but ultimately it was empty.”

“He did?”

“Creepy man, I hated him. We both did. And that Source... _Ugh_.” It was Kate’s turn to shudder.

“Who’s creepy? Greg, what have you been saying?” John enquired, arriving before Sherlock. Anthea had come with him, and she grinned at the joke. 

“Oi!” Greg complained. “It was not me. Give it a rest, you wan...oh, God, I am sorry, that was crass of me.” 

“Oh, don’t apologise, I’ve heard worse,” Kate admitted. “Much worse. When Irene gets anything wrong with her work the air is positively blue.”

“Besides, I feel it was justified, don’t you, Sherlock, dear?” Irene asked as Sherlock appeared in the door with Tobias and Amy.

“What was? What did I miss?”

“Greg calling your Source a wanker,” Irene said, with a sweet smile.

“Yes, well, I knew that, but what’s so special right now?” Sherlock said with a wide grin. 

“Ta, mate,” John swatted the back of Sherlock’s head. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.” The magus ducked and laughed. Greg was surprised at the complete familiarity that they were all displaying, the camaraderie that seemed present in the group. The formality of the dinner was gone. Up here, in Mycroft’s private chambers, they all obviously knew each other well enough to be themselves. He stood in the middle of it and shook his head at the surreal nature of it all. _To think I’m now part of this,_ he thought, and found that it made him feel happy to his core.

The last two to arrive, Emma and Marcus, were not among the usual coterie, but they had liberated a bottle of red wine apiece and flourished them as they entered, to everyone else’s applause, before adding them to a table already crowded with all manner of drinks. The waiters had delivered two large catering thermoses full of hot water, and another of hot milk, as well as supplying the necessary components to make coffee, various teas, and cocoa. Plates of biscuits, macaron and other choice sweetmeats had been presented on doily-lined plates. 

“Now, does anyone have to leave soon?” Mycroft asked.

“What time is it?”

“Nearly eleven,” Kate supplied, kicking her shoes off under the sofa.

“Are you all staying at the Temple tonight?”

“We can get a taxi,” Irene said, tucking her high heels next to Kate's and draping herself across her Source’s lap. Greg watched as Kate carded her fingers through Irene’s hair. 

“Nonsense, you shall have a Temple car,” Mycroft said, before Sherlock could intervene. “In truth, brother dear, if you are returning home also, I could have a car take you all home together. Would that suit?”

“It would save time,” Sherlock agreed. “Shall we press on, say til midnight?”

“Then simply tell me when you wish to head off,” Mycroft said. “Anyone else require a ride?” 

Once that was all arranged, and everyone had drinks, they sat around in a loose circle, perched on arms of chairs, and even laps. Mycroft, however, remained standing.

“I have been thinking,” he began, his eyes roving around them all.

“Bad habit, love,” Greg murmured.

“Yeah, I try not to do too much of it myself,” Toby admitted with a grin.

“Gentlemen, please,” Mycroft said, fondly exasperated. “We all know that magic is losing its potency. I quote ‘The days of great feats of magic are over’.”

“Who wrote that?” John asked.

“It’s in the Magical Primer for Schools,” Greg said. “I remember reading it when I was a kid.”

Mycroft cast him a look. “Of course you did,” he said with a smile. “Considering you attempted the Annals of Magic at thirteen I am certainly not surprised that you have read the Magical Primer. In it, I am sure you recall, it tells of how the magical energies are lessening. We know there are fewer mages being born every year. We are not, as far as I can tell, less powerful, just...there is not as much magical energy to go around. The Ley Nodes are closing down, their power is fading…Even the one that these buildings sit on is reduced in power compared to a scant ten years ago.” He faced the small company. “I aim to initialise research into why. I want you all to be part of the working group that looks into it. Would you be willing?” 

“What would we do?” Tobias asked. 

“Gather data from the wild, find nodes, measure their output, look at the magical species and their numbers, correlate the data and try to find some common denominator that we can act upon.”

“Sounds suspiciously like a life’s work to me,” Sherlock muttered.

“All I ask is that you lend your skills to this, and some day, we might stop it disappearing forever. I fear that magic is fading and one day it will not be available at all. I know it has been on certain peoples’ radar for a while but it has not been a popular and thus not a well-funded area of research. I also aim to get the magical Academies interested. I have personal funds I can divert to it, and if it gets off the ground, I am sure that it will garner sufficient interest from other bodies that can be encouraged to donate to the cause. What concerns me at present is that we make a start.”

“Might be worth talking to the werefolk,” Amy suggested. “They’re better attuned to the natural world than we are. Talks with them might yield something useful.”

“Is the power waning,” Greg asked, “or is your access to it being restricted?” Mycroft quirked an eyebrow at Greg’s observation. 

“Gregory, that idea has been dismissed out of hand. If anyone were doing something to stop our access to it, we would have heard about it by now. Believe me it has been investigated thoroughly.”

“It can’t be syphoned off and stored, can it?”

“It would take too much power,” Tobias explained. “The Mages’ Council has dismissed that as impossible, and the Council is made up of our finest minds. No one person, or even group for that matter, could muster enough power to block the earth source, it simply isn’t possible…”

“Sorry,” Greg said, “but yesterday, you thought I was impossible. A Source who commands all five Senses? But here I am. Might not be such a good idea to limit what might and might not be possible, eh?”

“He has a point,” Kate said. 

“But, sweetie, point or not,” Irene said, “a group would somehow have to block every node on every ley across the entire globe. Besides, in order to do so, they would have to be magical, and there is no motive for a magical group to block their own power...” 

“Unless they can syphon it off or divert it somewhere, maybe to a more powerful node? Forgive my ignorance, I don’t know how this stuff works.”

“Gregory, no matter what the motive, such a group would have to conceal themselves from others,” Mycroft said. “Even draining a single node without notice would be almost impossible even in the short term. Long term, for the duration that this has been happening, such a group would already have come to the attention of the Temple. The Earth Source is...like a net, surrounding the world, like a forcefield, for want of a better description. They are all connected. The leys follow the lines of power, like arteries in a body. The nodes, where they cross, are powerful conduits. Although you can access the energy from anywhere at any time, using a node makes it much easier. This Temple sits on one of the most powerful. You can feel others tapping into it, even identify them if you know how. It is impossible to hide that. Nobody knows how, at any rate.” 

“A mage can use the ley net to communicate with others,” Irene explained. “We were communicating with each other instantaneously in all corners of the world well before the invention of the Commoner internet. Mages know instinctively if others are accessing the Source nearby as well. Nobody has been able to shield their use of a node.”

“I do not believe it possible for the existence of such a subversive group to have remained undetected for so long,” Sherlock agreed. “They would have come to light by now, of that I have no doubt.”

“Sorry,” Greg added. “I think like a copper. First instinct would be to wonder if someone is stopping you all getting access. You know, like a blocked oil pipeline?”

“An...oil pipeline?” 

“Well, Earth energy is a wellspring, isn’t it?”

“I suppose so, yes.”

“So if it isn’t a group doing this deliberately, and I’m not yet convinced that it isn’t, maybe the world is just stopping you, because we’re doing damage to the world… Tobias, you’re the environmentalist. What do you think? Could it be global warming?” Tobias’ eyes narrowed in thought. “Look,” Greg ploughed on, “I know there’s illegal trafficking in ingredients for mage work. Comes under our radar sometimes, even if we have to pass all magical crime across to the Temple. So why is there illegal trafficking? Because species are disappearing, they’re getting rarer. Environments are changing. Conservation laws have been put in place for a reason, because we’re hunting to extinction. Even the Magus Prime needs a licence from the Government to procure the stuff he needs these days. The only way to get some of it is to farm the rare animals you need stuff from, and that’s rife with ethical dilemmas. There are very few people licensed to keep unicorns and griffins and they’re more often than not mages themselves.”

“It is a theory that has merit, and I do know there are people who have been investigating that angle,” Mycroft said. “It is true that the ingredients sourced from farms are not as potent as their wild counterparts.”

“I read the other day that a fox bred for its fur differs from a wild fox by more than 4000 genetic markers,” Emma said. “That’s a non-magical species. What might that do to our magical ingredients? How many gene markers does a Griffin that’s bred for its feathers, feathers that have a magical energy signature for writing spells, have that are different to completely wild griffins? I’d lay bets it's at least a few thousand, and we all know nobody has seen a Griffin in Yosemite in a decade.”

“You’ve been watching that documentary David Attenborough did last year…” Marcus suggested.

“Magical Planet was very good,” John said. “Couldn’t take my eyes off the Jackalopes in the Dolomites.” 

“I watched the one about the colony of Pygmy Griffons on Orkney,” Greg said. “he was saying how it isn’t doing well. Their prey is dwindling because the fishing regulations have changed. I watched his program about Scotland’s wildlife when I was a kid, and I used to dream of having a small Scots griffon as a pet,” he said. “Let’s face it, they’re cool, but they’re just too rare now. Apparently, they’ve got a breeding program for genetically domesticated ones in Russia.” 

“Which, if leaked research is to be believed,” Amy offered, “they are not as magical as their wild counterparts and are born no bigger than a domestic cat. Cute but not a whole lot of use.”

“Wish I could see a real wild Griffon,” Greg said. “That’d be one for the bucket list. They’re massive. Bigger than the ones used for transport. Chances of that are slim though.”

“Perhaps,” Marcus suggested, “someone should speak to Mr Attenborough. Get his advice.”

“He’s currently filming for Magical Planet II, isn’t he?” John said. “He’s raised his voice concerning climate change for a long time. Maybe you should speak to him.”

“I’ll call him,” Tobias said, casually dropping it into the conversation.

“Jesus, you know David Attenborough?” John said, incredulous. 

“He consulted us over the program,” Amy said, with a proud grin. “We were even credited on it. He wanted advice on dealing with dragons in Chile.”

“Wow. That’s so cool.” Marcus was delighted. “Any chance of an autograph?”

“Do excuse my colleague,” Emma said, exasperatedly elbowing Marcus in the ribs. “So you’re suggesting we go down the environmental route and try to suss out what’s happening?” 

“Precisely.” Mycroft nodded, sipping his tea. 

“Might need research facilities…”

“We have labs and libraries.”

“Might need funding to go places, we’re definitely going to need paperwork.”

“I believe,” Anthea said, “that’s my cue. I’m your liaison with him,” she pointed to Mycroft with her pen. “I and my Google-fu are at your disposal, as are my administrative skills. I can arrange visas, travel paperwork, I can book tickets, flights, hotels, vehicles, pretty much anything you want.”

“And believe me, she is amazing,” Greg endorsed cheerfully. She shot him a blazing smile. 

“Can you manage customs paperwork for camera equipment?” Tobias wanted to know.

“I can manage private flights as well, simplifies the logistics.” 

Tobias nodded, satisfied. “Well, Greg,” he added. “You proved yourself as a Wildspeaker tonight too. You might start investigating as well. You can handle animals…”

“Not really. I mean, they’re not afraid of me, or anything, and they know I’m not a threat but I can’t summon them, or really speak to them…”

“Maybe you need to learn their ways first,” Amy said. “Different animals communicate differently. If you like, you can work with me. I can give you some training, before we go off again.”

“That would be fantastic,” Greg said. “Thanks. Mycroft did suggest I should train with someone who knew more about it than me. John, fancy teaching me Patterning?”

“Greg, mate, I am not sure what I can teach you. You’re a bit of a natural.”

“Yeah, but I don’t have any parameters. I don’t know what it can do.”

John nodded. “Okay then, schedule some time and we’ll see what we can do.”

Mycroft looked at the group, all chatting like old friends, Gregory among them, and marvelled. These people were his trusted coterie, his little Cabal. The only other ones he would include would be Alicia, Victor Trevor, and James Abernathy. Together, they might have some chance at saving the future. For the first time in years, Mycroft allowed a sliver of hope to enter his mind. Despite the odds, this group would make a difference, and not just in the natural world. He wanted a difference to bleed into everyday life. He would encourage the lobbyists who were pushing for more involvement in Commonder life, and the ones who were pushing for more equity, now Magnusson was out of the picture.

“Brother,” Sherlock found him at the drinks table, fixing himself his third Earl Grey. 

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“I have made inroads into identifying all Magnusson’s known associates, and my team is making arrests as we speak. Those who revealed themselves in this evening’s meeting have all been brought in for questioning.”

“Arrests? What are the charges?”

“Sedition and treason, not to mention assassination. You recall the disappearances we could not pin down?”

“I do. What evidence have you found?”

“Plenty, in Michaelson’s office.”

“Michaelson? Wasn’t he….?”

“Magnusson’s PA, yes.”

“And?”

“He arranged everything, if you know what I mean; cars in the dead of night, storage facilities in unmarked containers, untraceable people to provide the muscle to move certain packages. Apparently he had a lot of rather strong obfuscation charms on his records and a secret room behind his office with very hefty warding that proved a bugger to take down. I thought you should know, I’m afraid I only learned my team’s progress with it just before the meeting and thought it best not to overset you with it right before such a _momentous_ gathering.”

“Thank you for your consideration. However, I trust you are _on it,_ as the phrase goes. Are we certain Magnusson is secure?”

“We are, very secure.” 

“Then I shall leave it in your hands, brother.”

The talk went on another hour, and devolved into discussions on avenues of research but it seemed pretty much all of their group was agreeable to researching the problem of waning magic. Mycroft called for a car to pick up his guests around one in the morning. Tobias and Amy were staying at the Temple, as were Emma and Marcus. Anthea was also to be spirited home by the car, so she left with Sherlock, John, Irene and Kate, both of whom kissed and hugged Greg as they prepared to leave.

“I think he has a good one in you,” Irene said quietly in his ear. “Stay safe, and listen to what he tells you. You’re unique, and that will scare people. Just take care, love. Sherlock and John will make sure you’re alright too.” 

Mycroft closed the doors and sighed heavily. “I don’t know about you, Gregory, but I am exhausted.” He stretched with a yawn and a groan. “You were utterly magnificent…”

“Not so bad, yourself, Myc.” Mycroft chuckled, tiredly. “What did Irene mean, I need to take care? She said I might scare some people.”

“Indubitably,” Mycroft said. “You are impossible, Gregory. Nobody has ever seen a Five Sense Source before. Two is unusual, as I said. And it is true, you should take care. There are unscrupulous people who would seek to learn what makes you tick, to experiment on you. However, you are more than capable of resisting anything anyone might do to coerce or harm you. Not to mention you have my security, and Sherlock and John, as well as the Justices. Everyone liked you tonight. You are friendly, kind, full of good humour. You are funny, Greg. You can make people laugh. I doubt there were many that didn’t take to you.” 

“Increased security though.”

“I would be lax in not suggesting it.”

“Not a good prognosis for returning to NSY.”

“Perhaps, but I will still need a liaison who speaks their language.”

“It would mean not being with you though.”

“Or we should do it together, every month perhaps.”

“Mycroft, would it be okay for me to have my own office, maybe? I mean, you’ll probably need your space and I...might need mine too?”

“Of course, my love. Your own space, time to do your own things. Most certainly. I shall bend my head around it on the morrow. Now, time for bed, I think.” 

“Are we heading home?”

“Heavens above, no. I should have told you, I have an apartment here.” He went to a connecting door and opened it onto a lovely bedroom, a large bay window looking out over the London rooftops. Miriad lights from the city winked in the darkness, and they stood together for a moment, gazing out across the sight. 

“Wonderful, isn’t it?” Mycroft said with a smile.

“All those thousands of ordinary people,” Greg said, wondering.

“A medley of souls,” Mycroft said. “Each going about life their own way. Most of them with no form of magic to help.”

“You see the cesspit and you see the gems,” Greg observed, linking his hand in Mycroft’s. “It’s got as many facets as a cut crystal, and as many secrets as a spy, but it’s my city and I love it. Wouldn’t be anywhere else. Certainly not right now either.” 

“A city of contrasts,” Mycroft said, “and a city of infinite shades, for a man of many talents and many aspects. You fit each other perfectly, Gregory.”

Greg leaned against him, staring thoughtfully out into the darkness. “Not as perfectly as I fit with you though,” he said, happily.


	14. The Grand Tour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg is guided around the Temple, and certain things are revealed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a long one, and hopefully not too boring, it's largely background. If anything doesn't work, contraditcts or if I've missed anything, please comment, because this is not beta-ed and I am tired. This is me taking my mind off the funeral I had to organise, and its a distraction from furlough.
> 
> The Uglagriff is entirely my invention, but I love the pics of owl griffons and came up with a name for them.

“This,” Mycroft said, as he opened the door and held it for Greg to go through, “is the library.”

It was the day after the Conclave and Mycroft was giving his Source a guided tour of the Temple. Greg had seen bits of it, briefly, on his infrequent visits, but those had been limited to the Guest’s Room off the main entrance and not much else. The Temple proved to be a motley assembly of different architectural periods, as any place that had such a long history perhaps should do, but in the Temple’s case, it seemingly had no continuity. It was as though a Victorian Town Hall had collided with a Tudor manor house and run over a medieval abbey on the way. No matter where Greg turned, nothing seemed to fit, but it all seemed to hang together as a whole. 

They passed through quiet pillared hallways paved with stone in which their footsteps echoed hollowly. Greg ran his hand across a carved wooden newel post in the very lifelike shape of a dragon, its head polished smooth with the passing of decades of hands. The staircase disappeared up in a spiral to who knew where, its banister rails and balusters of similarly polished wood, darkened with age and polished to a high shine by generations of staff. 

"Polished by backsides too," Mycroft observed when Greg commented on it. "This is the central stairway of the main building. It leads up through the central tower and ultimately to the older version of the Magus Prime’s Office, which overlooks the entrance.” Mycroft told him that the main building was not the oldest but it was the traditional central office for the highest ranks of the Mages for the last two centuries. The Magus Prime used to have the privilege of the topmost office in the tower, which had a flat ledge at the back to allow the Magus to come and go by griffon. “There are no impediments to sliding all the way down this bannister though,” he said. “It resembles a helter skelter." 

“Seriously?”

“Mhm, plenty of us tried it, back in the day…” There was a wry smile in place, as Mycroft recalled the memory. Greg tried to get his head around a young and irresponsible Mycroft Holmes sliding down a bannister rail and somehow he had a hard time imagining it. 

“Are you pulling my leg?”

“Not at all, Gregory. Goodness, did you never do anything irresponsible?”

“Yeah, well, I climbed trees, but...sliding down a bannister? You?”

“Some of us change considerably as we grow. Besides, it was good practice for protection spells, to stop you falling off.”

It wasn’t the only example of the high quality of craftsmanship. Throughout the whole Temple the expertise in its outfitting was outstanding, and, Mycroft assured him, accomplished by commoner craftspeople, with no magical intervention.

“Accomplished at times when relations between Commoner and Mage were a lot more cordial,” Mycroft explained. 

“There were a few of those then?” Greg said with a grin.

“Sadly, not many.” 

“So why wasn’t it created with magic?”

“Imbued with it perhaps, after so long in this atmosphere, but not made with it, for one reason. Magic is and always has been a means to an end, and one that requires effort and time. Why expend so much energy on it, when commoner means can accomplish it just as well? Magic has never really been something to waste on embellishment or frivolity.”

“Building is a frivolity?”

Mycroft sighed. “It might be looked upon as such, yes. It takes a lot of energy to construct something so large. It would take days, not hours. Constructing a shelter to keep you dry, warm and safe when on the road is one thing. Building something to give you a roof over your head is relatively simple, and cannot be looked on as frivolous if it stands between you and survival. However, as I told you, magic is losing its potency. Even in the last thousand years, since this place began, it would have taken many mages much effort to raise a structure like this one. However, there is another reason.” Greg raised an eyebrow in curiosity . “Strengthen a building with magic and it could fall when that magic is negated by a cancelling spell. One too many castles suffered that fate in the wars.”

“Couldn’t you just demolish a castle with magic anyway?”

“Alas, one created by magical means is subject to magical law, not necessarily to the physical laws governing construction. And yes, you can demolish an ordinary building by magical means but you are required to find the weakness and exploit that, in a similar way as demolishing the hard physical way. Should a building be constructed by magical means, it is not necessarily structurally sound. It would be fine under normal circumstances but once one removes the magic, the building falls. However, construct a structure with normal means, and it takes much more effort to bring it down, using magic or any other means.”

“So basically, magic isn’t reliable.”

“Magic is very reliable, but the usage of it still requires a knowledge of the laws of both nature and the physical world. You can magically bring something into being, but magic alone doesn’t sustain it. Creatures created by magic alone can die if they cannot sustain themselves in the world. It is not enough to simply create something, it has to be able to withstand the demands put upon it by the physical world it occupies. Create a paper castle, and it would collapse under the weight of the first rainstorm to fall on it, or the first person to stand in it. Maintaining the necessary waterproofing and strengthening to keep it from collapse would be a waste of time and energy. Am I making sense?”

“Far as I’m concerned, yes you are. So you’re telling me that magic cannot create something that...what, just stays magical? I mean, if you magicked a horse into existence that didn’t need food or water…”

“You could create a golem, perhaps. You could make something that resembled a horse, but it would not be _alive,_ per se. It would obey your commands, move like a horse, carry much more weight than a horse, and go faster than a horse, but...the sheer amount of power it would require to make it work...out of the purview of most of us. Besides, why create a horse? Horse breeders do that naturally. Buy one, and use your magical skills to befriend it, to influence it to aid you, to train it better. You could perhaps make it more intelligent, and strengthen its bones, give it more stamina, but that way lies an ethical dilemma. How much do you mess with nature?” 

“Seems that magic is best when you make it do stuff commoners can’t do, or enhance things that are already in existence, but you’ve got to be careful if you decide to play with biology.”

“Precisely. One can mend, enhance, preserve, create, but one should, I feel, preserve one’s skills and energy for things that are important.”

“One thing I never really understood, if magic is so darned great, why are you lot not in power?”

“Because unless it directly affects how we live our lives, we take no interest. The tenets of Magical life now demand that we do not seek power, but knowledge. We can advise, and help, but we cannot rule. Even had the King’s son developed magic, he would have been required to abdicate. There were times—surely you know your history, Gregory—when Mage sought to rule Commoner, but those times led to insurrection and war, civil war in some cases. So we do not seek to rule, cannot seek to rule, or risk everything.”

“Magnusson didn’t get the memo on that one then?” 

Mycroft nodded. “Our Order finally came to its senses, it only took them a thousand years to do so,” he said, dryly. “Magnusson thought he could return things to the old ways, but that was his mistake. The worry is that he had followers, and they may yet try causing me a problem.”

Somewhere, a clock struck the hour, and a carilon chimed a pleasant tune. Counting the dings, Greg realised it was midday. “Lunchtime,” Greg observed, stifling a chuckle. “How much tour have we got left?”

“Quite a lot. I suggest we reconvene after lunch.” 

Mycroft walked him to a dining hall in the central building of the three that made up the Temple complex, one more modest in size than the one they had been in the previous evening. It still possessed a vaulted ceiling, mullioned windows, hanging lanterns, and oak panelling, with yet more portraits lining the walls. They sat down on the high table to a pleasant light lunch of salmon sandwiches, crisps and salad, tea and scones, served by more polite liveried staff. 

“I wasn’t aware that Mages would eat something so commonplace,” Greg observed, tucking in ravenously. The food was presented beautifully; tea in china cups and a proper tea pot, cakes piled on a three tier cake plate, cream and jam in tiny bowls, silver cutlery. 

“Commonplace is sometimes the best,” Mycroft countered. “However, we could no more live on exotic fair every day than you could, Gregory. How can you be so hungry? You ate very well last night.” 

“What can I say, I missed breakfast…and you’ve walked me miles this morning. I worked up an appetite again.”

“Ah, so this is my fault, is it?”

“Dead right,” Greg replied, snagging more crisps. He leaned forward conspiratorially. “After all, we did work off a few calories this morning…” It was worth saying to see Mycroft’s scandalised expression. 

The afternoon saw them wandering through a massive conservatory built of iron with the pillars and roof arches decorated with surprisingly accurate and intricate castings of the flora of the British Isles. The conservatory projected out into the third quad, attached to a side wall, accessed from one of the laboratory buildings. Every conceivable plant seemed to exist inside it, some even in miniature, within individual bubbles of environmental conditions maintained in part by magical means. 

“So how do they keep this going then?” Greg wanted to know.

“By ordinary electric light and heating,” Mycroft said. “Although we’re gradually changing over to solar power as technology improves. The effects, however, are contained by magical fields, force fields if you like. One spells an object to emit magical energy in a specific configuration. Like a battery, they won’t last forever, but one can recharge them every few days. It is part of the Head Gardener’s job to do so. Horticulture is a popular field of study, and we have several very notable gardeners here. There is a walled garden on Temple Meadow, beyond the buildings. It supplies the kitchens with all manner of fruit and vegetables in and out of season. Thereby lies one of the skills of magic, to make plants adapt to conditions not usually in their nature and to grow excessively larger than normal, to yield a greater harvest.” 

“Doesn’t that contradict nature though?” 

“Yes, and as we already discussed, one should not do so excessively, but it allows us to sustain ourselves and remain independent, to rescue harvests, to cure diseases, to maintain healthy crops. Magic is about influencing the world and its energies, to bring about change, to create a desired outcome, in many aspects of life. Ethics is a constant debate.” 

The two men returned to the main building along shaded cloisters bordering small formal gardens overflowing with bright flowers. As they walked it had been easy to see that the Temple was made up of no less than three quadrangles with hidden alleyways joining them all together, a mishmash of buildings bordering each lawned space. Everywhere there was evidence of the mismatched effect of the historical periods; there were Moorish arches, Victorian floor tiles, glossy ceramic dados and medieval columns all jostling for space. Stonework rubbed shoulders with half-timbering, bricks warmed in the sun, and stucco walls reflected the light. Everywhere Greg looked there was some new feature to admire; fan vaulted ceilings with the intricacy of wedding cake icing, cosy cushioned window seats and reading nooks, a small side garden with a fountain cascading gently in front of a rocky grotto covered in ferns. 

“The spring that feeds it is natural,” Mycroft said, reaching to dip his fingers in the cold clear water. Small fish darted away from his hand, ripples shivering across the surface. By contrast, as Greg dipped his fingers in, the fish came close, nuzzling his fingertips, unafraid of the Wildspeaker in him. “Good to see your skills extend to all sizes of creature,” Mycroft observed. 

“Interesting effect,” Greg said. “Not sure how long it’ll take for me to get used to this.” He curled his fingers around a particularly fat little fish and it wriggled its fins, unafraid. He let it go, and it swirled around his hand, reluctant to leave. 

“I’m sure you will, eventually.”

“So...is this place just to relax in? I know this whole place is a bit...eclectic, but this is a bit of a weird feature.” 

“Fresh running water aids the study of the magical properties of the element,” Mycroft added, shaking the water from his fingers. Greg found his eyes drawn to the movement, admiring the long artistic fingers. Mycroft talked with his hands, moving them about in his enthusiasm for his subject. He would gesture to draw Greg’s attention to some feature or other, describing shapes with his hands, elegant fingers suggesting form and detail. Greg found himself mezmerised. He was beginning to think he might have a bit of a hand kink. 

“What about the other elements? Is there an eternal fire somewhere?”

“Actually, there is a bare patch of earth beneath the middle Hall of the Temple, an eternal fire in the chapel over there,” Mycroft pointed to a building with a high apex roof and a spire across the quad from there they were currently standing, “and the chapel itself is dedicated to spiritual pursuits.”

“And air?”

“The eyrie…”

“Eyrie?”

“Where Bentley and his fellows live.”

“Bentley? The griffon?” 

“The same.”

“There are more of them?”

“Three of them. Bentley, Thorquill, Greycrest…”

“What?”

“Greycrest.” 

“That’s…”

“What, Greg?”

“My favourite griffon was called Greycrest, wasn’t he?”

“Yes, he was. You remember?”

Greg took a breath. “Yes, I do. He was...a stubborn bugger.” Greg smiled fondly. “He liked those cakes Hild used to make…”

“You remember Hild?”

“Some. She was...Count Alan’s cook, wasn’t she? A force to be reckoned with.”

“She missed you after you’d...after you’d gone. She made Greycrest honey cakes for the rest of his life.” Mycroft glanced away, his voice a little strained. 

“He used to eat them like they were going out of fashion,” Greg said, his own voice a bit choked. 

“Would you like to meet them?”

The Eirie was at the top of the middle building, on the tower that erupted from the center of the roof. The flat stone-paved top was occupied by a building that resembled stables, each of the four wide stalls comfortably equipped with a deep nest of straw. There were only three occupants right then, all of them lazing on the wide platform in the sun. Up close, they were impressive, _even though they’re not as big as Greycrest was_ , Greg found himself thinking. They were not all griffons either. One was a hippogriff, the combination of eagle head and horse hindquarters. His feathers and fur were raven black, glossy and shimmering. He reminded Greg of Mycroft, immaculate and handsome. Of the other two, Greg noted one was a true griffon, with an eagle head and lion’s hindquarters, dappled grey plumage and mottles covering his flanks resembling a snow leopard, while the other was tawny, golden eyes staring out of the flat round face of an owl, his hindquarters resembling a shaggy domestic housecat. _Uglagriff,_ Greg’s mind supplied, but curiously, he had no memory of such a creature. 

“Sirs?” A light voice from their left made them turn in unison to see a wiry woman in leather riding gear approach from another door, tufts of short grey hair sticking out from under her flying helmet. Behind her, gleaming leather harnesses and saddles could be seen on hooks and stands. “Your Eminence, how may we help you?” she asked, respectfully. 

“Aurelia, a pleasure as always. My purpose is simply to introduce my new Source here to these three fine fellows. Aurelia Harrow, Greg lestrade,” Mycroft said, making a swift introduction. “Aurelia is First Groom here.” 

Greg nodded toward her, and smiled. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“A pleasure, Your Grace,” the lady said, giving him the by-now-traditional small bow. “I’m sure they’ll be interested to meet you.” 

Mycroft smiled and turned toward the three occupants, bowing respectfully as he did so. “Gentlemen?” Greg was interested to see that each of the creatures bowed its head to him. “Greetings to you all. Gregory, I wish to introduce you to Greycrest, Bentley, and Thorquill, our air support…”

* _Greetings, new Source of the Magus’ Joy_ * The words echoed in Greg’s head, and he knew they came from the darker one. * _If with our lives we can serve you, we will_ *

“I...thank you,” Greg said, unsure what to say, but bowing in return. “I’m honoured to meet you all.” 

* _You have known us before_ * It was a statement, not a question. They just _knew_. 

“I’ve...had a griffon companion before, yes. Twice in fact. One I knew as Greycrest,” he said, glancing at the grey as he said it. “The other was named Skydancer. Both trusted and valued friends. I miss them both.” 

* _They fly in our memories_ * The tawny one was looking at him intently. * _You are Wildspeaker?_ *

“Wildspeaker, Patterner, Inspeaker, Far Traveller, _and_ Unraveller,” Greg admitted.

* _This is unprecedented*_

_*This is significant*_

_*This is historic_ *

Greg smiled at the three different voices in his head. He nodded. “It has been said.” 

Amusement reached him, as a feeling, rather than a thought. He smiled. 

* _Another will come_ * Bentley said. * _When the time is right. For now, ask and we shall take you where you desire_ *

“Thanks, I...er...I don’t actually need to be anywhere today, but...if you could take me to Scotland Yard one day…?”

* _When you have need of us, just ask. Scotland is quite far, Scotland Yard quite close, but either will be acceptable, for you_ *

“Thank you. Appreciated,” Greg said, unsure whether a joke had been made. 

“Thank you, Gentlemen,” Mycroft said, bowing to the three Griffons. “Come along, Gregory, we still have lots to see.”

“That was...amazing.”

“They like you. Anyone they dislike gets frigid politeness and not a lot more. You have been accepted, Gregory, and accepted unconditionally.” 

“Feels a bit...strange. I mean...I used to ride one of those things….”

“A long time ago, and not so very long at all.” 

“Yeah, about that. I still cannot get my head around the memories. It’s weird.”

“Things will return to you, gradually. I hope they will anyway. If not, well…”

“As I said, you’ll have to jog my memory.”

“Then I shall endeavour to do so.”

“Talking of jogging memory, what’s an Uglagriff?”

“Ah, that would be Thorquill. He’s a griffon but from the far reaches of Norway and Finland. Uglagriff are part owl, rather than eagle, and part _Skogcatt_ , Norwegian Forest Cat. Ugla is Old Norse for owl. They are a species of griffon, rather than a separate creature. They share griffon DNA but are more adapted to cold climates. Thorquill returns to his native land every once in a while, especially when summers get too hot. He returns here every winter.”

“I’ve a lot to learn,” Greg muttered.

“I think you’ll find you remember more as time goes on. Don’t fret, Gregory. I am here to help.”

“What the Fuck is that?”

After the buildings, there were the artefacts. All along the corridors of the main building hung paintings of past Mages. They lined the walls, staring down disapprovingly on the present occupants of the Temple. The fashions left a lot to be desired in Greg’s opinion. Tudor ruffs vied with stiff collars and black bow ties, tricorns and wigs with top hats and cravats. Overall the gowns did not seem to have changed much with the passing centuries, although certain ages saw more elaborate ones. The Tudors certainly seemed to have loved their embroidery and fur trims. Greg half-expected the portraits to move but only their eyes seemed to track him as he passed. However, those were not the things that had him exclaiming as he peered through glass cabinet doors and spied the weirdness within. 

“That,” Mycroft explained, “is a Mandrake, a root of the Mandragora Officinarum.”

“That one looks like a shrivelled human being.”

“I can assure you that it is only a root, but it was thought to be humanoid a few hundred years ago.”

“It’s got _eyes,_ Mycroft.”

“I can assure you, those are tiny blemishes in the root surface, that is all,” Mycroft reassured him. “In fact, people perpetuated the tale that they would scream when pulled up out of the ground, and the scream would kill anyone who heard it. So they would tie a hungry dog to the plant and then throw food for the animal. It would run for the food, and tug the plant up, and if the plant screamed it would kill the dog and not the human.”

“Seems a bit harsh on the dog.”

“Despite having magical properties, the Mandrake _doesn’t_ actually scream when pulled up, so no dogs have ever been sacrificed in the name of magical science, but it does have restricted properties. It was probably a cautionary tale to protect the unwary. It is poisonous, hallucinogenic, and it can lead to breathing difficulties and ultimately asphyxiation. Not something to be trifled with, but it does produce exceptional results in some potions.”

“And what is _that_ strange thing, then?”

“Which one, Gregory?” 

“That shrivelled...twisted thing? Looks like a shrivelled cock with a couple of feathers on it.”

“That is a fetish, a magical focus. That one is from somewhere in South America. One ties it to…” Mycroft waved a vague hand around his groin area.

“God, no…”

“I was going to say, to one’s bull, in the hope to give it virility. It is a bull pizzle.”

“Pizzle?”

“Penis, Gregory, it is a bull’s penis.”

“Poor fucking bull,” Greg muttered. 

“Things like that have been the focus of magic for a long time. Anything that represents the focus of certain energies can, in theory, find sympathetic use in spell creation. For instance, genitalia are the focus of procreative power, tongues could be said to be the focus of communicative power, hearts are the focus of romantic love, one’s brain is the focus of intellectual prowess…”

“Please tell me that human body parts have not been used as fetishes? I remember John telling me he’d found thumbs in their fridge once...”

“Of course they have, but a very long time ago, and no, Sherlock is not using human body parts in his magic. That is quite against the law. He is studying forensic techniques; breaking down of tissue, bruises that form after death, fingerprint removal and replacement, identifying types of cigarette ash, among other things. Here,” he said, leading the way to another case, set back against the wall. Several shrunken heads glared out at Greg from under tufts of bushy hair. He turned to look dubiously at Mycroft. 

“Seriously?” he asked.

“Seriously,” Mycroft answered. “Ancient shrunken heads, often obtained from a tribe’s enemies caught in battle, were the source of some powerful intellectual magic once upon a time.” 

“How utterly disgusting.”

“I imagine, were you a 13 year old boy, you imght have relished that image.”

“Yeah, likely you’re right. I’d have loved it once upon a time.”

“I think,” Mycroft said, “we’d be best making haste to finish this. There is something I need to do soon. We’d best wend our way back to my chambers.”

As they walked back to Mycroft’s rooms, Greg noted that at least some of the exhibits were more ordinary. Cool aquamarine vases of Chinese porcelain stood next to marble busts of Roman emperors and bronze statuettes of mythical beasts. Crystal formations vied with stuffed animals and Egyptian figurines for Greg’s attention as they walked. It was like passing through a museum, despite the fact that Greg knew a lot of the objects were probably regularly used in magical ritual in some way. However, Mycroft reassured him that some of the things were simply for decoration and aesthetic enjoyment.

On the way back to Mycroft’s rooms, they passed through a comfortable common room that Mycroft said belonged to the Senior Mages, equipped with worn and squashy leather chairs, an enormous stone fireplace and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves which wouldn’t have been out of place in a traditional gentlemens’ club. They passed through a room that had been divided into traditional carrels for individual study, while yet another room had been redecorated and converted into a computer center with modern terminals. In the midst of all the history, it was a jarring contrast, a concession to the 21st Century. 

As they progressed, Greg realised he was gradually managing to get his bearings, although he knew he might need a map to navigate for a while. His Patterner skills were kicking in, allowing him to see connections between things. That had been a recent development, from chatting with John about it. It had all begun to make sense as they had walked through it, and Greg got the overwhelming feeling of years of tradition and the weight of history behind it all. Greg glimpsed laboratories, all white china, glass shelving and clean tables. There were the Sphere rooms, where they had done their attuning. There was a ballroom with a sprung floor, walls mirrored and gilded with Baroque opulence. Now they were at the main library. 

“Keep your voice down, we’re rather traditional,” Mycroft warned, watching with amusement as Greg’s jaw dropped when he walked through the door. “I just wanted you to see this to finish with.” 

“Oh. My. God…”

“Rather spectacular, I agree.”

“Spectacular? Understatement, Myc. This is...wow.” The two men moved further into the room. High ceilings soared overhead and there were ranks and ranks of high shelves in dark wood, packed with leather-bound and gilded books as far as the eye could see. Tables were situated down the central aisle, equipped with book stands and green-shaded lamps. Looking up, Greg could see at least two galleries on higher levels above them, reached by impressive spiral staircases. Carved wooden buttresses arched into the heavens, and the walls were punctuated with high gothic windows much like the ones in Mycroft’s study. These were taller and narrower, bordered with narrow arched stonework. To their right a U-shaped desk was situated, behind which were two people, together with some computer monitors. They both looked up as the two men appeared, the older of the pair, a tall woman with half-glasses and an air of haughty superiority, glared at them. 

“So...how on earth do you find anything in here?”

“Alas we are somewhat plebeian, Gregory. We use the Dewey Decimal system like any other library.”

“That’s a bit...disappointing, Mycroft.”

“Don’t let me stop you, but we are about to be approached by the Basilisk of the Bookshelves…”

“Eh?”

“Hillary Bengt, Head Librarian,” Mycroft murmured. “Terrorising acolytes since 1953…” 

“Gentlemen!” Greg turned, plastering a pleasant smile on his face. “Yes, you. If you please, we have rules,” the lady said, unmoved. “We observe complete silence in the library! At _all_ times.” 

“Terribly sorry,” Greg whispered, “but how does one enquire as to where to find a particular book, if you’re not allowed to speak?”

The woman glared some more. Obviously not used to being challenged, her eyes narrowed. “The main desk is charmed, you can speak freely there. I haven’t seen you here before, have I?”

“Unlikely. I’m a newly bonded Source to…”

“Huh! That explains much…” She turned, and glanced at Mycroft, then did the most perfect double take. Her eyes widened. “Ah...Magus Prime? I...uh...I did not recognise you…my apologies...”

“Please, Madam Bengt, do not worry,” Mycroft said, full of suave reassurance. “You are quite within your rights to request silence. I am afraid I was indulging my Source, introducing him to a place I have always thought was spectacularly beautiful. I crave your indulgence, please forgive us the intrusion…”

“I..uh...of c.c.course, Your Eminence. Please, s.s.stay as long as you wish… Was there anything…?”

“No, merely curiosity. We shall leave you in peace. Thank you for your patience.” 

Mycroft smiled widely, and led Greg out with a hand in the small of his back.

“You absolute tease,” Greg exclaimed when they were in the corridor. “The poor woman nearly had heart failure.”

“You would be surprised at how many acolytes she has nearly scared to death, myself included.”

“Oh, I see.”

“You do?”

“Yup. Revenge is sweet, eh?”

“It is indeed, Gregory.” 

**0000000**

“This place is...breathtaking, and eccentric…”

“An apt description,” Mycroft agreed. “It is a bit of a jigsaw. Do not expect to navigate its ways immediately. If the building likes you, you’ll never get lost.”

“Why don’t I think that’s an odd concept?” 

Mycroft smiled again, softer this time. “Because this building has a spirit, Gregory.”

“Ghosts?”

“Oh, it has a few of those, but no, it has a _Genius Loci_ , a spirit of place. There has been a spirit connected with this building since before Roman times, although the Romans recognised it and… here, let me show you…”

They walked along the corridors back toward the front of the building, but instead of taking the stairs to Mycroft’s chambers, they walked past and paused in the middle of the corridor, beside a panelled wall. Mycroft stopped before a marquetry pattern in the wood and gave a small bow. Greg felt a shiver pass through him, and he paused, wondering why. Mycroft reached out and pressed part of the marquetry design and there was a soft click as the panel released. He pulled it forward and slid it sideways. Behind it lay a carved stone, painted white, and Greg recognised carved latin characters in the face of it. They were painted red, a stark contrast against the white ground. There was a dimple in the rectangular scrolled top, and scrolls along the edge to either side.

“This stone has been here, in the same place, for two thousand years,” Mycroft explained. “It was erected to the spirit, by some forgotten Roman mage on the advice of a Druid. The wording reads ‘Whosoever moves this stone from this grove, let him be cursed. Let the grove stand for a thousand years. Whosoever refuses to sacrifice to this place, let him be cursed. Find peace, who gives selflessly to my cause.’ Of course much of the meaning has been lost, but every year we sacrifice a libation of blood and wine. The grove has gone, obviously, but the building was built around and over this stone, making sure never to move it one inch from its place. The Spirit is with us even now.” 

“A building spirit?”

“More than that, Gregory. It is intrinsic to this location. It is in the fabric of the brick and stone, and in the earth beneath. It is, unlike us, eternal. Magnusson did not believe in such things.” 

“Good job he didn’t try moving it.”

“I don’t think he knew about it. Magnusson wasn’t trained in London, Gregory. This is not his home Temple. He was from Sweden originally, but moved here apparently because he liked the country. Let us just say, I am glad that some things eluded him. The existence of this is...on a need to know basis, shall we say. The legend has it that the Genius Loci is here because of the earth node, the lays meeting here. There are no less than twenty one lays that meet or cross on this spot.”

“So...do Loci communicate?”

“Some do. In all my time here, this one never has. There is nobody in living memory who has been contacted by it.”

“How do you know it’s here then?”

Mycroft smiled enigmatically and said, “One simply knows it is here.” 

Greg nodded, and remained silent, but he bowed to the stone just the same.

Walking back to Mycroft’s chambers, Greg frowned in thought. “Mycroft?”

“Yes, my dear?”

“I can’t shake the feeling that something is going to happen…”

“About what?”

“Magnusson.”

“He is behind bars, and a fifty mile radius null field. I very much doubt anything can go wrong…”

“Mycroft, it’s not...it’s intuition, that’s all.” 

“Forgive me, Gregory, I am not disrespecting your Intuition, but a little more detail would not come amiss.”

“When I get some, you’ll be first to know. Seriously, I don’t know how to get more. It’s just....” Greg shrugged. “A feeling, nothing more.”

“Then we should return to my office. I definitely need to make a call about arranging more training for you.”


	15. Flying High

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg remembers his past lives, flies again, and settles more into his role. However, trouble is looming.

“Damn it, John, this is harder than it looks…”

“Nobody ever said it would be easy, but it’s easier than you’re making it,” John retorted, mildly exasperated with him. “Stop expecting this to be so hard. Look, just...close your eyes, and then try to _see_ with your other senses. Listen to the sounds, feel the air…” Greg closed his eyes and waited, trying to focus on what John was up to, where he was moving. “That’s it,” John murmured. “Just regulate your breathing, slow things down, no matter how urgent the situation. Just...let it happen.” Greg’s skin prickled. He knew that he _should_ be able to predict John’s movements even without seeing the man, but it wasn’t as easy as he’d thought. He roused his body into motion, pirouetting, bringing his weapon arm over and around, unsure that was where he was supposed to be but _feeling_ it with his body…

“Greg? Greg, mate…”

“What?” 

“You’ve done it. Open your eyes." Amusement coloured John’s tone.

Greg opened his eyes and blinked, finding John Watson standing with the sword that Greg held resting at his throat. “Bloody Hell, are you bullshitting me?” Greg exclaimed, surprised.

“Nope, far from it, you just moved into the right place, the same one I was moving into. If you only trusted your instincts more, you’d see you _can_ do this, and do it well. Perhaps better than most students in their final year. You’re a natural, and your Paterning abilities are waking up. You need more confidence, mate. You should trust yourself more.”

There was no doubt that Greg’s abilities were developing quite quickly. He worked with John and Kate and Amy on his Source’s skills during the day, and read up on magical practices in the evenings, just as though he was back at university. He was three weeks in and already there was improvement and extra knowledge he hadn’t been aware of before. More and more of his memories were returning, memories of past lives which he was at pains to quiz Mycroft about to verify them. However, as his memories returned, inevitably his skills developed as well as he remembered them. Muscle memory returned, and it felt sometimes like waking up after winning the lottery, knowing that you would never go back to how you were before. 

Working with Mycroft was also a revelation. Greg was able to channel magical energy easily, his stamina far greater than any in Mycroft’s prior experience. Mycroft had not had a source of his own before, not in this life anyway, but he was well aware of the skills and talents required, and he knew Greg was above average in his strengths. This incarnation of his partner was stronger than ever, although Mycroft did not understand the implications of that just yet. He also knew they had not yet reached Greg’s limits. Mycroft was careful not to let him go too far or too fast, determining a careful balance of working to Greg’s capacity, but stretching him a little once in a while, to make sure he didn’t grow bored. It was so far proving to work well. While Greg might chafe at imposed restrictions, he nevertheless understood the necessity. 

Greg found that he loved watching Mycroft create things out of thin air; objects, both solid and illusory, as well as transmuting one thing into other things, changing their chemistry and form. It took a lot of effort, Greg realised, both effort and time, and he began to realise why magic wasn’t the cure-all every Commoner assumed it to be. Illusory objects were easier to create because they were only a shadow of the original thing and were not solid. The air seemed to coalesce around Mycroft’s hands, as he murmured the words that wove the energy into a tight pattern. 

Creating actual things was a bit more difficult. Mycroft explained that drawing matter from _somewhere_ into making objects, had to be learned painstakingly so that _somewhere_ did not include the mage themself. Either a lump of clay or a stone or the stuff from a kitchen bin would work, discarded items that would not be missed were best. If one used earth magic for creating things, then energy and matter were drawn from the earth, from _objects,_ around them. Transmuting things used fire magic to effect a change from one form to another. Divination and charms were Air principle magicks, and Water governed healing, potions, and purification. Mages used their own strength and stamina for magic work, and it took a lot out of them to accomplish. However, Greg was learning how much he could help Mycroft by being a conduit for the energies the man worked with. It became evident that a mage with multiple disciplines like Mycroft (very often a mage only concentrated on one element to become proficient in) benefited greatly from a Source who could channel all five Disciplines. 

When they finished one particular session, Mycroft stretched and groaned.

“Oh, ye Gods. That was...I am afraid I pushed us there, Gregory. Are you alright?”

“Fine, why?” Greg smiled reassuringly.

“I wonder sometimes if I have struck upon a boundless Source,” Mycroft muttered. “It seems that we have yet to find your limits, my dear. Are you _sure_ you are alright?”

“Fine, promise. You tired?”

“Yes, but I know I have accomplished much, much more than I used to be able to. It is evident that our partnership is exceptionally beneficial to me, Gregory. I am frankly surprised at how bottomless is the well-spring of your energy.”

“Yeah, well, as long as you’re okay. Here…” The next moment, Greg’s hands landed on Mycroft’s shoulders and he began to massage. Mycroft moaned as Greg’s fingers probed a particularly tight knot in his left shoulder. 

“Oooh...Gods. Gregory, _please_ could we reserve this for the bedroom? I fear an ill-timed and regrettable response to your ministrations, should you continue…and I believe this room is required by a group of neonates in twenty minutes….” 

“Oh, okay. Like that, is it?” Greg smirked, and slid his hand down, giving his lover’s plush arse a squeeze. “Can’t risk corrupting the young and impressionable, can we? After all, we don’t want them learning about sex magic too soon.”

“Gregory!” Mycroft uttered in a scandalised tone. “The very idea.”

Greg laughed. “Come on, you. Let’s get you upstairs…”

**0000000**

“I should visit NSY,” Greg said one morning, sitting across from Mycroft on the other side of his desk. He was scrolling through the Mages’ learning portal online, scanning documents and bringing himself up to speed on magical legislation. 

“Have you considered the appointment of another Liaison?”

“Is that down to me? I thought it was down to the Met to decide?”

“If you have a preference, then you are at liberty to state who you would prefer to deal with. As my proxy, it can be your decision."

“Oh. If that’s the case, how come Magnusson didn’t have me removed?”

“He thought you would be a pushover, that’s why. A Common-born Nulmaj with no imagination, as he viewed all the police who come from Commoner backgrounds. You were all goldfish to him, pot plants with a comprehensive school education.”

“Is that how he thought of me?”

“Pretty much, yes. He thought of every commoner in those terms though. Like all the upper classes from a family with many mages in their ancestry, he grossly underestimated you. He thinks he knows people’s weak points, and he exploits them, ruthlessly. What he fails to understand are that those weak points can also be strengths.”

“How so? I mean, if you care for someone, and that person is attacked, or kidnapped…”

“Perhaps in commoner terms, yes. However, in mage terms…” Mycroft paused. “Take us for instance. My love for you makes me stronger, makes our bond stronger and thus the energy I bring to the attack all the stronger if someone ever harms you. In magic, that makes a huge difference. That bond means I can find you...anywhere, any time. We have a link...” Mycroft stopped, frowning. “I hope you do not find that invasive. You’d have every right to.”

“Depends if you violated my privacy or demanded I never go anywhere. Depends on if you become abusive and controlling. Believe me, I’ve seen that, more than once. I understand the signs, and you’re not like that. You don’t care who I see, who I work with. Hell, you’d let me go back to NSY part time if I wanted to. You seem to be confident that our bond is strong enough to withstand my being with someone else, as a friend, or a colleague. You’ve not stopped me seeing anyone else. You’ve not taken away my control over my money or my car or my life...At least, not without my consent anyway.”

“Perhaps not, but things were rushed. I feel like I did not give you time to consider the implications.”

“I’m fine, Myc. I understood the need for that, and I agreed to it all. Look, I’m constantly remembering new stuff, how you and I used to feel about each other. Still do, don’t we?”

Mycroft allowed a smile to curve his lips. “Yes, we do. At least, I hope _you_ do.”

“I do, Mycroft, I do. So...better make that call, and get myself to NSY.” They shared a look, and a smile, and Greg grabbed the phone and dialled. “Put me through to the Commissioner's office please…” He covered the phone and glanced at Mycroft. “Exactly what am I empowered to demand?”

“Use your skills at negotiation, Gregory. Be your usual charming self. Jeremy is a lovely man when you get to know him…”

“Yes, thank you,” Greg replied to the person at the end of the call, dragging his attention away from Mycroft again. “Sure, my name is Greg Lestrade, Source Pursuivant to His Eminence, Mycroft Holmes, Magus Sentinel Prime of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland…” 

From that point things had gotten interesting. Commissioner Jeremy Treece was indeed a charming man, and listened to Greg ‘s suggestions, responding to them with enthusiasm.

“Of course, Your Grace,” he said, affably. “I shall make the arrangements with the appropriate department as soon as we have finished this call. If you prefer to deal with someone you know, then we have no objection, although…"

"Although?"

"The officer in question is only a sergeant." 

Greg paused. "Problem?" He asked with a chuckle. “I’m not going to take a hissy fit if you don’t give me a Chief Super.” He could hear the smile in jeremy’s voice when he answered. 

"It isn’t a problem on our end, Your Grace. In fact...yes, as I thought. The officer in question is perhaps overdue for a promotion. I shall set the wheels in motion for that as soon as humanly possible. When did you expect to visit?”

“I was going to fly over on friday but...would you keep my name out of it? I would rather like to...surprise the person in question. Would you be willing to fax the details of the promotion to inspector over to me, and approve that person taking over my former division? They don’t know about _my_ promotion yet and I would quite like to be the one to tell them about theirs… Thank you, yes. I shall be there at around 2pm, this friday afternoon.” Greg returned the receiver to its rest. "Are they always so sycophantic?"

"Alas, no, Gregory. However, as I said, Jeremy is a nice man. He can be reasonable."

"A month ago he had no idea who I was".

“A month ago, I was in the dark as to your continued existence as well, don’t forget. If this has been a whirlwind for you, it has been the same for me too.” 

**0000000**

The first time Greg rode a griffon (despite being aware that he used to do this on a regular basis in his past lives this was his first time in _this_ life), he decided he had better look the part. He consulted with Aurelia on what was best to wear, and then donned proper riding kit as befitted the occasion. It was like a cross between biking leathers and horse riding gear. He was wearing slick black jodhpurs, knee-high riding boots with the correct width and heel for the stirrups, a fitted jacket with nothing loose that could flap in the wind, and a padded dark blue gilet that would keep him warm while flying. The gilet was embroidered with charm sigils that would protect him from missiles, cushion him if he fell, and slow his fall rate down too. Aurelia also presented him with a helmet, which she said was properly spelled to protect his head should the worst happen. Where the visor would be was a magical shield to protect his eyes from the wind and to stop him involuntarily inhaling flies. 

He reported to the Eyrie at the appointed time to find Aurelia waiting for him, Bentley was also suitably clad in saddle and flying harness emblazoned with the Temple crest, standing ready at the edge of the ledge, wings partially spread allowing the wind to ruffle his flight feathers.

“Your Grace,” Aurelia said warmly. “Welcome. Bentley requested that he be the one to fly you today.”

“Thank you, Bentley,” Greg said, smiling. The hippogriff inclined his head, gracefully.

*A pleasure* he said.

“If you’d like to stow any belongings you have in the saddlebags, they’re quite big enough for a briefcase and your robes…” 

Greg was not wearing his robes to make the flight, they were entirely too inclined to get in the way, so he stowed the neatly folded dark-grey formal robes, the second set that the tailor had adjusted and had delivered the previous week, into the bag strapped on one side behind the saddle, and added his briefcase to the other bag on the other side. He was not looking forward to wearing the robes because if anybody he knew at NSY saw him he had a good idea he would have to endure plenty of jokes. 

“We thought you might like to take a short trip around the quads to get adjusted to the experience first. You’ll be perfectly safe. Bentley always takes care of his passengers, don’t you, Gorgeous.”

Bentley blinked and clicked his beak. *She always refers to us so* he said, and there was amusement in his mind-voice. *She loves us*

*Good to be loved* Greg thought back and heard a distinct chuckle in his head. 

*She is a mother* Bentley said and dipped his shoulder for Greg to step up. He slotted his foot into the stirrup behind the wing and found Aurelia ready to boost him into the saddle. He settled on board, getting the feel of sitting on the big creature. _And to think he’s smaller than Greycrest,_ Greg thought. It was still like sitting on a shire horse. There were no reins, but Bentley was kitted out in a leather harness that secured the saddle around not just his belly, but around his neck as well, there were loops to hold that connected to it, and Greg also had to wear a harness that clipped securely on to the saddle fore and aft. 

*When I launch, please brace yourself* Bentley instructed. *Lean forward into it, or you’ll be pushed back and your balance will be compromised. You might injure your neck and His Eminence would not forgive that* There was amusement in the tone again, and Greg smiled.

*I’ll be careful. I wouldn’t wish to bring His Eminence’s wrath down on you* he thought, answering with amusement of his own. 

Muscle memory kicked in as Bentley's hind quarters tensed to launch. With a swooping feeling in his stomach as they leapt upward and into the air, Greg held on tight. With a massive downstroke of the wings, Bentley gained height, circling the buildings below him, spiralling up a thermal. Greg risked a look and gasped. The sight of the buildings so far below was beyond words, but the memories it triggered were beyond anything he’d recalled so far. He remembered flying above armies, above battlegrounds, and seeing fires and destruction and death all about him. Yet he also remembered the sheer joy of flying through clouds, of the bite of the cold air, the wind in his face, and the sun on his back. It was exciting, impossibly recklessly exhilarating, and Bentley was landing before he knew it, back onto the Eyrie ledge. 

“That was….” He let out a breath, a whoosh of air he hadn’t know he was holding in. Aurelia was grinning. “Gets you like that, doesn’t it? Was that okay? You ready to fly to NSY?” she asked, seeking reassurance that he was indeed ready.

“I think I am. Yes, I’m fine.” Greg nodded. “Ready, thanks.”

“See you later then,” she said brightly, and patted Bentley’s shoulder. The beast tensed to take off again, and the next second they were airborne once more and turning toward the river.

The flight didn’t take long. Bentley deliberately took the long way, because they were way too early. Greg had allowed time to practice but he honestly hadn’t required much. They flew over the nearest park, and did a low pass across the lake, scaring a flock of geese, who honked angrily, much to Bentley’s amusement. When they did descend, Bentley alighted on the helipad on top of NSY gently, with a backwinging brake that made his landing easy, even though Greg prepared himself for the slight jolt. There was someone to meet him, a young copper who looked about 14. 

“Your Grace?” he said, as Greg unclipped himself and dismounted as though he’d been doing this for years. He caught Bentley’s amusement as he did so. “PC Dominic Taylor,” the lad said. “Welcome to NSY, sir. I’ve been designated your guide today.”

“Thanks, PC Taylor, or should I call you Dominic?”

“Oh, er...Dominic is fine, sir. Unless you’d prefer to be more formal?”

“Nah, look, they may not have told you but I am familiar with this place. Before I became _Your Grace,_ I was Detective Inspector Lestrade, Homicide and Serious Crimes. In fact, until they tell me otherwise, I am still Detective Inspector Lestrade, of Homicide and Serious Crimes. So...let me get this harness off and my robes on, and you can lead me to your new Liaison.”

He managed to divest himself of the riding harness and handed it to a groom from the police stables who was on Eyrie duty. Greg recalled that considering the lads and lasses from the mounted division were used to a horse’s needs they were best placed to take care of visiting airborne mounts and their riders. Bentley was shown into a comfortable stable out of the direct sun, and offered water and a snack, and the harness was hung on a hook nearby, while Greg was shown down into a reception room beyond the Eyrie to don his robes and leave behind his helmet and gloves. He grasped his briefcase, and checked himself in the thoughtfully-placed mirror by the door. _Helmet-hair is going to be the bane of my life_ , he thought, scruffling his hand across his skull. He followed PC Taylor out of the room to the lift. 

Greg made small-talk as they descended, noting the lad’s obvious nerves. By the time they arrived at Greg’s old floor, they were chuckling over Arsenal's poor chances against Tottenham, and the disastrous choice of new manager. The lad had considerably relaxed and told Greg he would be available to escort him back when he’d finished. 

“Come with me, I’ll have someone get you a coffee,” Greg said, pushing through the doors to his department. It was with no small feeling of nostalgia considering it had only been a scant few weeks since it had all happened. The bull-pen was mercifully quiet, and he recognised Sally’s dark head behind her desk. 

“Detective Sergeant Donovan,” Greg said, seriously. “Not ready for me, I see…”

She whirled, eyes wide. “What are you…? Oh, My God, Greg?" Sally noticed his robes. "You’re the new Source? Fucking Hell, you absolute Bastard!” The next second he was engulfed in a hug, and she buried her head in his shoulder and held on tight. He hugged her back, a few of the newer people looking curiously their way. When she finally released him, she stood back and raked him with a glance. “So, this is you now, huh?” 

“Pretty much. They made you the new liaison?”

“Was that your doing?” her eyes narrowed. “I couldn’t believe it when they said I’d been requested but they wouldn’t say by whom. Made me wonder, cos I’m only a sergeant. Should have seen Winstone’s face when they told him…”

“Winstone?”

“Yeah, DCI Frank Winstone, all set to be the new Liaison, and then I’m told I’ve been requested. Winstone was livid.” 

“He my replacement then?”

“Yeah, he is. Only been here a week and nobody likes him either. He’s a pompous twat…”

“I’ll gather he’s not here then?”

“Nope, out following up a lead.” 

“So, think we can borrow my old office back?” 

“Yeah, why not?”

“Have someone get this lad a coffee, would you? He’s my designated guide,” Greg said with a grin. He clapped Dominic on the back. “He’s drawn the short straw today.”

“Oi, Grantley?” Sally shouted.

“Yes, Sarg?”

“Three coffees, quick as you can, please. One for PC…”

“Taylor, ma’am.”

“One for PC Taylor, and one each for me and my guest. Milk and two for my guest please. You,” she said to Dominic. “You can sit there and wait until we’re finished.”

Greg settled back behind his desk with a smile. “I miss this,” he said, softly, accepting the coffee from Sal when it arrived, and leaning back. “I wanted to come back, but…”

“But?”

“But the new position means I won’t be able to devote the time. Mycroft needs me, and my training is taking up a lot of available time.” Over the last two weeks, Greg had explained to Sally what had happened with brief calls and texts, and how fast everything had been, but he hadn’t gone into too much detail. 

“I miss you, boss,” she said, a bit despondently. “We were told the new bloke was temporary, but...well…”

“Well?” It was Greg's turn to prompt.

“He’s talking as though they’ll let him stay. I mean, I was hoping...but nobody’s said anything, so I guess I’m not up for promotion.”

“Which brings me,” Greg said, rummaging in his briefcase and fetching out a set of paperwork, “to the first matter in hand. In my new role as Source Pursuivant, it seems the powers-that-be are willing to bend over backwards to accommodate the new Magus, and by default, his source. So there you go. After all, we can’t have a liaison who isn’t at least a DI, can we?”

She took the letter and attached paperwork that he slid across the desk toward her. Her eyes grew round. “This says...I’m a DI? Seriously?”

“Sign on the dotted line, luv. You deserve it. Even the Commissioner agreed it was overdue. Read on.”

She flipped to the next page, and stared. “What. The. Fuck. Greg, what did you do?”

“Effective immediately, you are now the new Detective Inspector of this division, and this is your new office, my girl. So treat my chair with respect.”

“Oh, Greg…” Sally sniffed, and tried to master her emotions. “I...I dunno what to say…”

“Just do it justice, luv. I know you will.” He was engulfed in another hug, this time with tears, and he grinned into her hair.

“Does he love you?” she asked, when they separated.

“Yes, he does, and I love him too. It’s weird. I remember stuff from past lives…”

“Is that really a thing?”

“Oh yes, it is. However, you and me, we need a proper catch up. Let’s deal with business first, but would you like to come for dinner at the Temple, and I can show you around, introduce you to Mycroft?”

“Seriously? Sure. When though? I have a date tonight.”

“You have a date? What's he like?”

“ _She’s_ really sweet…”

“Okay, so, who is this angel?”

“Her name’s Molly. She works in the morgue.”

“Molly Hooper?”

“The same. I’ve had to meet with her a few times since you left, and well...we just hit it off...”

“Sweet little Hoops? Well, I never. Treat her right, yeah? She’s a lovely person, but she lives alone, and has a cat called Toby but I always called him Hoola.”

“Hoola?”

“Yeah, because he’s Hoola Hoops.” 

Sally laughed. “I’ll tell her you said that.”

“You do that, and give her a hug from me when you do.”

“If I can bring her to the Temple for dinner as my plus one, you can hug her yourself.”

They discussed the business of the day, which wasn’t much, just reassurance the Temple (under new management) was not seeking the same assurances that Magnusson had, and that forty eight hours to transfer a case of magical jurisdiction was fine, as long as all forensic evidence, case notes and any other material was transferred as quickly as possible. Greg told her that a prompt call to involve the Temple from the beginning would be best, and Sally agreed she would oversee it to the best of her ability. 

They were finishing up and at the office door when Winstone returned. Sally turned to the man and waited for him to approach. 

“Greg, can I introduce you to DI Frank Winstone, lately of Greater Manchester Police.”

"And this is?" Winstone said, frowning.

“Greg Lestrade, Source to the Magus Prime,” Greg said, extending a hand.

“Well, well,” the man said, “A DI yourself until recently I believe. So how are you finding life at the Temple?”

“Busy. Never a dull moment, either. You must excuse me, I need to finish up here and be off,” Greg said. 

“How are you finding our new Liaison? I hope she’s brought you up to speed? Although I must say, I’m surprised you requested a mere sergeant…” Pomposity oozed out of the man’s pores. “I offered myself for the role, considering my experience in Manchester. I was liaison to the Mancunian Chantry…”

“Well, I am pleased to say, Sally is no longer a Sergeant. She’s been promoted to Detective Inspector with immediate effect. Also with immediate effect, she’s taking over my old position here, as Inspector for this division.” 

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’m sorry, is there a problem?”

“N.n.no, not at all, but…”

“Sal, you can start moving your stuff into the office,” Greg emphasised. “Thank you for overseeing the place while the transition was made, Frank. Much appreciated.” 

“But...but I....”

“Ah, Your Grace, glad I caught you.” Greg and Sally both looked around to see the Commissioner Treece heading down the corridor toward them. Sally’s eyebrows nearly hit her hairline, Winstone looked gobsmacked, but Greg merely smiled, warmly. 

“Commissioner, how nice to see you,” he said, charm oozing from every pore. _If Mycroft could see me now, he would be so proud,_ Greg thought with amusement. The two men shook hands. “I was just thanking DI Winstone for looking after the division while I’ve been gone. I think Detective Inspector Donovan is ready to move into my old office.”

“Oh, please call me Jeremy,” the man said, affably. “I was hoping to catch you. I should have asked if you could stop by the office, but I know you must be busy…”

“Nonsense, Jeremy. Not a problem. So, everything sorted out, I trust?” 

“Of course, Your Grace.” Treece glanced at Winstone, who looked less than happy. “Don’t worry, Winstone. I have an assignment for a man of your talents in Brixton, if you’re interested. There’s an opening for a DCI…” The man blinked.

“Er...yes, sir.”

“If you would be so kind as to go and let the Superintendent know I want a word. Stick around and I’ll be along to speak to both of you when I’m finished here.”

“Yes, sir,” the man said weakly, and they all watched him hurry off. 

“Do please get in touch with the Magus Prime’s office if you need anything,” Greg advised. “We’re not going to follow in the former Magus’ footsteps. We aim to be far more approachable.”

“Now _that_ I am glad to hear. I was wondering if we might meet. I was hoping to discuss something with the Magus…”

“Then allow me to invite you and Mrs Treece to dinner at the Temple. We can make an evening of it.”

“Oh, that would be very kind. Thank you, Your Grace…”

“Greg, please, no need to stand on ceremony. I’m sure I can give your good lady a tour of the Temple while you and Mycroft talk shop. Shall I have our office get in touch next week and arrange a date?”

“By all means, yes, that would be perfect.”

“Nothing else urgent?” Greg slid a business card out of his pocket and handed it over. “If there’s anything you want me to pass along to Mycroft, then please email me. I’ll make sure it gets to him. It’ll be quicker than using the general email.” 

“Thank you, Your Grace...Greg. That is...much appreciated. I look forward to meeting you both at a more congenial time.”

Greg smiled widely. “You too, Jeremy, you too.”

Sally shook her head. “Look at you, schmoozing with the Commissioner. Gods, between you and the Freak, I’m not sure who to trust any more. What a stunt to pull.” She was smiling as she said it, exasperation showing in her eyes. They collected PC Taylor, and returned to the roof, Greg gave her the assurance a Temple car would pick her up in a few days. He arranged to text her with another date and to ask Molly if she could make it as well. Sally agreed to ask her, and suggested they celebrate her promotion. Back at the roof, he introduced Sally to Bentley. 

“You look good in robes,” she said, as he folded them and put them away in the saddlebags again. “I’ll miss you, Boss, but thanks for what you’ve done.”

“Listen, anytime you need advice, or an ear, or a drinking partner, call me, okay? I’m still around. I’m going to miss this too, you know?” Greg buckled his flying helmet on again. “We’ll make a regular date for you and me to meet, and we can get someone to take proper minutes. We can discuss Temple business, and then you can run your cases past me for advice, and then we can go to the pub. How would that be?”

“Sounds perfect,” Sal replied. “I’m glad you asked for me, you know. Means we still get to see each other.”

“As I said, if you need anything, call, okay?”

“Okay, _dad_. I’ll let you know how it goes with Molls.” She stepped away, lifting a hand in a wave. 

“You do that. See you in a week or so.” Greg stood on the mounting step and slipped his foot into the stirrup, swinging onto Bentley’s saddle looking like he’d been doing it for years. “Come on then, lad, let’s go home.” He found he meant it too. 

A text arrived as he reached the Temple again, from Sally.

**Winstone was not best pleased but the Super told him it was true. He’s been packed off to Birmingham, effective next week, lording it over me as he’s going to be a DCI. He’s got a week to sort his stuff out and get himself there, so he won’t have any time to screw us over here anymore. They’ve confirmed I’m your replacement, as of Monday, so I have the weekend off. The Butcher case was sent to CPS last week, and I’m footloose and fancy free. Molly’s free Monday or Wednesday evening. We’ll see you for dinner either of those dates? ❤❤❤**

Greg grinned at the three hearts, thanked Bentley and Aurelia, and handed back the kit she had lent him. He fired off a text before he reached Mycroft’s office.

**Don’t frighten her, but I’ll be happy to see you both on Wednesday evening. I’ll send a car for you, and it’ll drive you home too. Good luck, Detective Inspector Donovan. XXX**

**0000000**

The weekend rolled around again. Mycroft was working for part of it, some meeting that couldn’t be shifted and had to take place early at 8am Saturday morning. At half eight, Greg was dozing, enjoying a lie in when the phone rang, and he peered at the caller display before accepting it.

"Sherlock, sorry, but he's in a meeting…"

"I need you to interrupt him, shut it down, and get ready to leave."

"What?"

"Make ready to leave the flat. You both need to be in Chambers as soon as possible. I've sent a car…It’ll be with you in…” there was a short pause, “ten minutes.”

"Hang on, where's the fire?"

"This is not a drill, Gordon. I just had a report from HMP Dartmoor. Thirty minutes ago, there was a blackout on their cctv. Their null-field generator went down with it."

"Sherlock, what are you saying?"

"They thought it was a malfunction, but then they realised someone had hacked the system. Along with the cctv and the NF, a very specific set of doors were unlocked. I dare say even you can work out which ones." 

"Magnusson."

“All the doors from his cell leading to the roof. He knocked out three guards who tried to stop him with his magic, killed three more and escaped by griffon. It was spotted by some sharp-eyed Park Ranger flying north. He thought it unusual, so he called the police. As of now, Magnusson is a fugitive. Hurry, Greg. Go tell my brother. I’ll see you at Temple in half an hour.” 


End file.
